once and future lovers
by littlesecret84
Summary: He told me once that he preferred brunettes, but his fingers were always playing with long, blonde strands. He could never make up his mind... until he did. And now that I'm back I don't think he deserves a second chance.
1. Chapter 1

**Just another hs story, but not really, since Bella's the one telling it and she's in her early twenties now. **

**Many, many thanks to my awesome friends who listen to me talk all day about the stuff I'm writing – my beta Nina, Tracy, Indira, Belle, denverpopcorn, Becklyn, Tor, Anya, Helenah, Michele, and probably everyone on Twitter. **

**I don't own Twilight**

_Your once and future lover has made himself a home_

_Rives_

Life is made up of moments. If I could go back to a single moment when everything was perfect, when I was truly happy, I'd go back to that morning in New York, when Edward snuck into the hotel room I had been sharing with his mother. Esme was already downstairs, ready for breakfast and tours and street pretzels and shows. I had begged for the morning off, and Edward had ten minutes which he turned into twenty, thirty, until his parents gave up and let him stay behind.

That morning, everything was right. We were so far away from Forks, from eyes and ears and honey-hued legs and voices that kept me up way into the night. That morning, Edward made love to me for the very first time. I don't think I've rewritten history or retouched it with fantasies and dreams and ruffles and giggles and prettiness. They were all there with the January sun so, so bright, and his hair so soft, and our skin so damp with sweat and the wetness kisses leave behind. I remember thinking—this isn't what sex is supposed to be, but wouldn't it be nice to be wrong? It didn't have that rhythm, it lacked the guilt, nothing felt like it should be kept a secret, or shared with everyone with the kind of pride that's always made me a little sick. I felt like a child, and I was a child, but a child who felt like a kid on an endless summer afternoon with her favorite friends, just playing and laughing and knowing maybe this ends, but not now—the sun is still out and it stays out late in the summer. That's how it felt, and it was familiar, because I had over fifteen years of summer afternoons spent with Edward to remember, relive, eventually forget, but not because I wanted to... Some memories just fade, and it takes a word or song or smell to bring them back years later, and when one of them comes back like that, sometimes you decide it's one you want to keep.

Or you write about it, because I think that's why writers write, and why they are. Some thoughts or words are that special, or if they're not, they have potential. And you're greedy and want to keep them somewhere, make them real, tangible, give them life.

But I'm not a writer. I just think the words; I don't put them down anywhere or give them form. If they go, they go. If they stay, I can think about them again.

I think about how he got up, and how I tried to keep him there, but he was wearing no clothes to grab onto, no waistband to pull on, and my hold on him was weak and brief and it made him laugh. He just wanted to see if he could turn down the heat. He couldn't. It's okay, I told him, the heat will just make us dizzier, and dizzy is good. But he wasn't dizzy. It was just me. And I think ultimately, when it came down to it, that was the problem.

XxXxX

I act like decades have passed, but that's not the case. And not much has happened since that morning. Just the usual—college, grad school, internships. Boyfriends who were never really boyfriends, friends who were not always friends. New homes—and that's a term use a little loosely, because I consider any place "home" if I have a bed there, some books, and, most importantly, a cord for my laptop. New cities, of course, including two years in the city with the bright morning light that was too harsh for January. Or just too harsh in general.

And now I'm home again, which is probably why I'm thinking about him at least twice as much as I usually do. I'm back in the house my father bought for my mother. The one she took care of like it was her second child—sometimes like it was her first. It's a beautiful house, but not beautiful enough for some of us. Not everyone wants to be in a place where everything has a voice and a story to tell. Like the stairs that lead up to the room where Edward first kissed me. The door Dad shut quietly behind him the night Royce King came back. The phone Mom dropped days later. The same one. I want to understand how she's kept it, how she uses it every day.

I would have thrown it out. I was only seventeen then, and I wasn't allowed to make decisions like that—the phone wasn't my property. But I look at it now and it's old and scratched, and it's in my hand, and I hate everything it represents. I picture myself hurling it against the wall, and this makes me laugh. The wall doesn't deserve that. If I had better aim I'd try throwing it against the picture of the three of us, or the one to its left, of the little boy and the little girl who had smiles so big his dad used to say it hurt to look straight at us. But I'd never do it, because that little boy was the best thing in my life, and my memories of him are always bright and happy and nothing is his fault.

**I know… short chapter. The next one is longer, and I'll have it up soon. Share your thoughts if you have any. Thanks so much. I've missed you guys. **

**mwah**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks so much to Writeontime and ciaobella27**

**I don't own Twilight**

Blue eyes are always fascinating to someone like me, so I have always wondered if they hold the same fascination for people with green eyes. Whether or not that's the case, he must have been captivated by those eyes the first time they really looked into his own, here at the Thriftway, so many years ago.

They're a beautiful blue.

XxXxX

Tanya never liked her.

"I hope his mom walks in. I'd never let a guy touch me like that in front of other people."

Ignoring her, I continued nodding along to the song that was playing.

"It's so disrespectful, too," she continued. "If she had any self-respect, she wouldn't let him touch her like that. I don't know what he sees in her."

Liar. We all knew.

"I never thought of him as that guy, you know? I thought he respected women..."

"He does."

The boy apologized to me for weeks after the first time he touched me.

That was four years before my conversation with Tanya. Edward had turned thirteen in June and spent the entire summer teasing me because I was a kid, and he was a teenager. I knew he didn't mean it, because he spent all his time with me, and when we returned to school in September, he made sure to sit next to me in every class we had together, unless there was assigned seating.

So when Mr. Molina turned off the lights to show us a video about acids and bases, Edward was sitting to my left. He leaned over, like he had something to say, so I leaned in too—because he was always mumbling when he was trying to be quiet and you needed to place your ear as close as possible to his mouth—and we touched, but not really. Maybe just our hair. Then a few minutes later, I felt something on my thigh, and I made a sound so screechy and loud that everyone turned around to find out what was going on.

Edward was so red.

I must have been redder.

But he did it again, and this time I pushed his hand away and asked him what he was doing.

He wouldn't look at me when he shrugged and said, "Can you blame me for trying?"

I guess not.

He never tried again.

Unless you count the time he told me we should kiss just to see what it was like. We were about to start high school, and neither of us had been kissed. I told him it was a stupid idea. First kisses were supposed to mean something—you couldn't use your first kiss as practice for future kisses. He told me I was immature and that I was going to embarrass myself when someone finally kissed me. I told him he was stupid. Guys didn't care—my boyfriend would be older, and he'd teach me how. Funny, how right I was. Then I told Edward that he would be the one embarrassing himself, especially if he ended up kissing the girls he always stared at by the pool. They were our age, but they'd kissed boys.

So that was it. No more touching, no more kiss talk.

Unless you want to count all those e-mails he used to forward to me about the benefits of kissing. That whole phase was so annoying at the time, but when I tell the story now, or think back to those days, I smile, and so does everyone who hears the story for the first, second, or fifteenth time. And I'm sure they're thinking back to when they were kids and things were innocent, even if they didn't seem innocent at the time. Sometimes I wish we were all given the ability to work out the difference back then, but I guess it's all a part of growing up and figuring things out.

Edward ended up kissing a girl named Emily a couple of times, but before he worked up the courage to do anything else, Sam—the man she would later marry—asked her out, and Emily told Edward she was sorry, but... it was Sam. Duh.

I thought she was stupid. Edward was smaller than Sam, but better looking. Did I think Edward was attractive back then? I'll never remember when that line was finally crossed. I probably did, on a level so deeply hidden that I wasn't aware of it, until I finally was.

I used to go back and forth on that. His face was so oddly shaped, but then he'd smile or frown, and he was breathtaking. Or, sometimes, he just looked bloated and strange. That face. The things it did. And the things it still does.

The night of my conversation with Tanya—the eve of my seventeenth birthday—I was beginning my obsession with Edward's face, but I was way more obsessed with kisses. It's all I could think about. They were everywhere I looked. Even Mom and Dad had shared a kiss before I left the house, and that was so strange, and it made me so happy, and if Edward hadn't been busy later on I would have told him about it, and he would have said, "See? I told you... They're still in love." Oh, and how my heart still aches at the memory of my parents being affectionate with each other. Different from the ache the resulted from hours spent sitting on an overstuffed chair, trying not to stare at Edward and Rosalie sharing kisses and gropes and all the other things Tanya kept pointing out.

And of course their endless kissing had me thinking about Jacob's attempts. Twice he had tried to kiss me, but I had freaked out both times and come up with an excuse just as his lips touched mine. I'd been so nervous, so afraid to mess up and embarrass myself, always thinking of the words I'd said to Edward about embarrassing himself with the experienced girls who hung out by the pool.

But Edward didn't look like he was embarrassing himself with Rosalie in his arms. Not at all.

"Bella," Tanya whispered that night, "you shouldn't wear that top. Your boobs are gonna fall out."

"What boobs..."

"I'm serious, each time you lean forward, I swear I see a little... pink."

I wanted to die.

"What?"

"And Edward noticed earlier..."

"Yeah, right."

"What? Do you want him to notice?"

I guess I did. Subconsciously. Or not. I remembered the thrill I felt when Edward had made fun of my butt earlier that year, saying it wasn't a skinny girl's butt. I'd taken offense to it, but Mom said he had been complimenting me.

What kind of compliment was that supposed to be?

I hid my butt for weeks.

But I think I got it—at least some of it. I understood that it meant he had noticed my butt. Yeah, now I giggle thinking about a seventeen-year-old talking about my butt. Back then, it had made me wish he'd talk about other things—but never disrespectfully.

And the rest of it... I _didn't_ get. And I'm not sure if I do now. Because after years of daydreaming about him, sometimes I confuse what's real and what I made up in my fantasies. There are only a few things that I know for sure were Edward. Those things are harder to think about, because I get it now. His words, his intentions, his actions. Now I understand.

But back then... I was perpetually confused.

I think I even asked him weeks after the butt comment just what he'd meant by it. And he ignored me.

Ignored me just like he ignored me on my birthday. And I was left sitting there, listening to Tanya all night, thinking about how I looked and how I was moving and what I was saying and how I was saying it and what my mouth looked like when I smiled like that, or if my teeth looked huge when I laughed.

I was uncomfortable.

I blamed it on Edward, and Tanya did, too.

All I had wanted for my birthday was to hang out with my friends, Edward and Tanya. Tanya was cool with that, so when Edward started talking about a party, Tanya made it clear that she did not approve. And sitting with me at the party, she still didn't approve.

"We don't even know these people. They've ignored us year after year, and now they're here to celebrate your birthday?"

"Edward—"

"Don't defend him, Bella."

"They're nice people, okay? Just because we haven't been friends since middle school doesn't mean they're not nice people."

Sure, they were Rosalie's friends—and for a junior, Rosalie Hale definitely had a lot of friends who were seniors, probably because she dated Royce King until his family moved to Spokane just before senior year—but they were nice. And they had all pitched in to buy me a present. Later, Edward would tell me it was Rosalie's idea to get me something. Tanya didn't buy it, though. No way, she said, he's just trying to make us like her. But we liked her, right? She shook her head and gave me that look. Of course we didn't like her.

"She's such a slut."

"Shhhh. Stop it," I snapped.

"Can he keep his hands off her ass? Some of us are trying to eat here. It's also disrespectful to you—it's your birthday and he's been making out with her all night."

"She's his girlfriend, Tanya. That's what people do at parties."

"So why don't you go do it with Emmett?" she hissed. "He keeps looking at you."

"Ew, no."

I didn't want to kiss Emmett. The party was only a few weeks after I had decided to tell Edward that _we_ needed to kiss. I'd been in Arizona at the time, visiting my grandparents, and I had decided that it needed to happen before senior year. Of course, upon my return to Forks, I was told that Edward had been dating Rosalie Hale for over a week.

They had run into each other at the Thriftway, and Rosalie couldn't reach up to grab a box of cereal, so Edward helped. She supposedly asked him what he was up to all summer, and he told her he'd been bored, because his friends were out of town, visiting family. She told him to come to a party at Jasper's house, and he did, and... That's where I told Edward it's great, so awesome, she's really pretty. He agreed that she was.

And that was the problem—Rosalie Hale was pretty. She was beautiful. She was lots of things I didn't know I wanted to be. Things I still want to be. Because who doesn't want to be confident, attractive, charismatic, interesting? Except I don't think she looks confident or charismatic or interesting anymore. Still attractive, though. But life happens, and people change. She's been through a lot. She's had experiences I've never had. But, I digress.

That night, she was beautiful, but she was also rude. Sitting on her boyfriend's lap for hours, her tongue in his mouth, sometimes even on his skin. It was my party, and I was being ignored by my best friend, because she was more interesting to him.

Or maybe they were just doing what people did in high school. I remember thinking that I liked it better when I didn't know what went on at parties, what happened between couples.

That night changed everything. Gone were the days when I had no idea what Edward's hands looked like on some girl's butt. The days when I thought his hands were just hands, and hadn't noticed how big they were, how long his thumb was, what his fingers looked like when they were digging into dark denim.

So when Tanya disappeared and returned with a bottle of beer, I took it. She said "cheers" and the clink was loud, but the glass was thick and I thought, people do this all the time, like in the movies, on TV. My hand was shaking, just a little. I'd never done that before, and although I thought Tanya had more experience with beer and toasts, I could tell by the face she made after her first sip that she wasn't used to the taste.

"Finally," she exclaimed. "I guess Edward asked her for permission to breathe."

"Shut up."

"Look at his mouth. I hope Esme walks in right now. Explain that to your mother, Edward."

It was swollen. Lips all red and puffy. I stifled a laugh and ignored the random, unwelcome pang. And when it turned into more than a pang, I ignored my panic. And once I started panicking, I couldn't stop.

I haven't stopped.

Every year on September 13—and then on random days when I'm reminded of Rosalie Hale and kisses—I spend a few minutes thinking about that birthday, and of course the one after it, the first one without Edward. I can't decide which was worse.

XxXxX

Once I'm back at the house it's easy to push aside these memories and focus on the present, because I need to tell Mom about my visit to the Thriftway.

"Cullen," I repeat. "Rosalie Cullen. Not Hale. That's still so weird to say."

"Well, it's been over six years."

"Seven, I think."

Mom nods. "That sounds about right. Just about ten months after I started working at the school again."

So that's how she keeps track of time.

"Anyway, Rosalie Cullen looks just like her mother. I'm not saying she looks old... I mean, she's gorgeous, but she looks just like her mother now. Especially her hair."

"Is that so scary?" Mom asks. "You don't want to look like me someday?"

"Someday..." I laugh. "I'm kidding, Mom. You're beautiful. I wish I looked like you."

"Please... My skin isn't what it used to be. Your mother's getting old..."

"Never." I see her smiling to herself, and it makes me happy.

"Anyway," I continue, "she pretended she didn't recognize me. Or maybe she didn't, I don't know. It's been..."

"Seven years?"

"Well, longer than that. But get this—there were four pregnancy tests in her cart. Four."

"Oh?"

"I guess they're finally ready to start a family. Edward was in the car, waiting for her. He looks—"

"Bella, you know? I forgot to call Sue about tomorrow's schedule. You'll tell me the rest of your story later."

"Oh, okay."

She looks at me, and her face changes. "Never mind. I can call her in a bit. Go on."

"Oh, nothing. It was just weird seeing him."

"Do you think he's changed?" she asks me.

"I mean, he looks bigger. But his face... it's thinner. He's grown out his... He has a beard, Mom. I almost didn't recognize him."

"Bella," Mom starts. And I can tell from her attempts at hiding her smile that she's about to torture me with something.

"What?"

"You still blush when you talk about him."

"No. No I..."

"It's okay. Mrs. Cope's son, Randy, still does that to me."

"Oh God... no more Deputy Randy stories."

Laughing, Mom joins me at the kitchen table. "Did you talk to him?"

"No."

"I think you should. Oh, that boy's face when he stops by and sees something that reminds him of when you two were little. He can really smile, that one. And the stories he remembers..."

"Why does Edward stop by?" I ask. And the thought of him stopping by while I'm here... I get rid of that thought. Because... because.

"To borrow some of your father's things. The Stanleys left that house in ruins, and those kids were stupid enough to buy it. And now they can't afford to fix it up properly. I suppose it doesn't matter, because Rosalie prefers staying with her mother when it gets too cold—that old furnace needs to be replaced. But it's summer now, and—"

"They bought Jessica's house?" I shout, turning to look out the big, open windows.

Laughing, she leans over and covers my mouth with her hand.

"Keep your voice down, Bella. Edward likes to leave the garage door open."

**Thanks so much for reading and reviewing, guys. I tried replying to the reviews, but I could only do so via PM, and there's a daily max, and I hit it, and then I got a little lazy. **

**If you've got any questions, comments, etc - just ask. I love hearing from you.**

**mwah**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you Nina, my sweet, sweet beta. And thank you Tracy.**

**I don't own Twilight. **

A familiar song is playing somewhere outside. I know where it's coming from, and I want to walk toward it, in that direction, because I know what I'll find there. If I walk and he's there and the song hasn't ended, I'll be a kid again, and this summer will be like so many old summers. Maybe he'll sing some parts to me, like he used to. But not like that—never like that, not even then—because we were just friends, just kids, and now he's married, and too much time has passed for me to assume we're anything but strangers, despite what Mom tells me, and despite the way he casually waved at me from his car this morning.

XxXxX

Dad loved The Beatles. So did Mom. We'd listen to them often in the car, on long trips, me alone in the back but not alone at all, because I was there with Mom and Dad, and four really talented guys, and the same songs over and over, and things moved by so fast if I looked out the window, but inside the car, time moved so slowly. Or so I thought. Really, it moved too fast, because that was so long ago. And I had forgotten the endless hours spent in that car, or the other car, and Mom and Dad and The Beatles and my heart that would swell when that song came on reminding me of a boy. And it was so weird, because I didn't even like him then. But I imagined him liking me enough to sing it to me. Or think of me when he heard it playing. Or dedicate it to me in some way. And it always comes back to them. Mom, Dad, Edward.

It's funny that the only other constant I had during those times was Tanya, but I have no memories of just her, or anything pertaining to her as her own person. And yet she's the only one I've kept in touch with. Sure, Dad calls once in a while, and Mom is always here, waiting for me to visit and tell her nice, happy things, but I've actually made an effort through the years to see Tanya on a pretty regular basis, despite the distance and the circumstances.

Tanya's a mother now, all sweet but stern, and soft and pretty and pink everything because the girls like pink, and nothing blue because her son doesn't get here for another couple of months. She's still wise and nosy, maybe even more so now. She always says, "If you'd _listened_ to me..." Yes, if I'd listened to her, where would I be? There is no way—_no_ way—she can make me believe that Edward and I would have ended up together. Rosalie married him while she was still in high school! That wasn't me then, and if that's what he wanted... well, I don't know who wanted what, and why they did what they did, and there were so many rumors about the army, and babies, and none of them ended up being true, but I know that I would have never ended up married at eighteen, especially knowing what I knew then about marriage and love and how things rarely last.

I would have moved to Chicago, and Edward? He wanted to move with me. He said anywhere, anytime, just tell me and we'll go, Bella, I'll find a school, too, and I'll get a job. The words of a child. Words that were forgotten once he grew up and realized you can have friends, or you can have girlfriends, and girlfriends give you things that friends don't, and even when friends give you those things, they might not be good enough, but let's not go there. Not while the best songs are still playing somewhere outside, and Tanya's on the phone with me, saying her goodbyes.

"Peyton, say, 'Bye-bye, Aunt Bella!'"

"Tanya, it's really okay—"

"Oh, fine! She's cranky, anyway. I should put her down for her nap. Her sister passed out hours ago, but this one..."

"I'll let you get back to the kids," I tell her. "Talk to you soon."

"Remember to take pictures! I want to see what they look like! Especially Edward. I don't care about that who—"

"Stop teaching Peyton bad words." I laugh and say "bye" a few more times until she finally hangs up.

I'm tempted to take the short walk from the kitchen door to the source of the music that's been driving me crazy all afternoon. Like it's no big deal. Hey! So good to see you! And it would be. So good to see him. Now that his name no longer hurts. His name is just a name, even if I blush sometimes when I say it. I think that's only because my body, my skin have been conditioned to warm up and turn into a deep, shaming red when he's mentioned. At first I think it was because I was carrying a huge secret from everyone—I really, really liked him and he really, really didn't care. And then it turned out he did, and the secret became much bigger, and then I was blushing because there were dozens of new secrets. His mouth and his fingers pressing and his chest against mine and the breathing. The breathing was the worst, because he had to do it all the time, even when it wasn't just me and him and one of those moments we never talked about. But those normal breaths reminded me of the ones I heard so close to my ear. Sometimes directly in it. Making me wonder how you could know a person for a lifetime, but not know some parts of them until you do. And when you do, those parts are the ones that stay.

There are new looks, new words, new ways to consider the person. His hair isn't just hair. His mouth isn't just there to inhale slices of greasy pizza, or chew on his knuckles. I loved the new things, but they were scary. Like the way he started to stare at me a few weeks after my birthday. Butterfly-inducing, frightening, nerve-destroying stares. Then he'd snap out of it and look away, and there was always something else to look at. Something very pretty, and always ready to give him attention and smiles and touches. And there would be no more staring until she was gone. Long after, usually. Because when Rosalie walked away, you watched. Her hips moved like this, and her butt moved like that, and she'd always turn around for a second and look back at him, and she did things with her face, these expressions, that I had no idea how to make. They said a thousand things to the people they were meant for, and I knew then that my face couldn't do what my mind told it to do... it just was. Everything was on it, always. And it's still like that, nothing has changed. So if I go now, if I follow the music, he will know everything. But only if he bothers to look. He probably won't.

He can't still be mad at me. Mom says he asks about me, that he tells stories about when we were kids. Maybe he's just being polite to his neighbor. Or maybe by the time I left Forks, I was the one who was mad at him. I can't remember _who_ was mad _when_ anymore. Just that I knocked on his bedroom door after Esme had welcomed me inside their house with a hug and some kisses, and he was so surprised when he saw me, but then just sat there as I said goodbye. I hugged him, and it was awkward because he was still sitting, and when I leaned in too much and was practically in his lap, he stiffened, and I let go, and after that I couldn't imagine sending a postcard, or writing an email, or loving any other boys. So I did none of those things, even when I thought I was doing some of them.

XxXxX

"Bella, don't just stand there," Mom says. "Go say 'hello' and let him know you're going to be staying for a while."

"If he wants to see me, he can stop by. He knows I'm here."

"That's true. You're right. Let him come to you."

"You make it sound... weird. It's not like that," I tell her.

"You're the one who's making it 'like that' by making a big deal out of this."

"It _is_ a big deal. It's been so long. He's like a stranger. And what if his wife took those tests and it was bad news? Then he's upset right now. And if she took them and it's good news, he's probably celebrating and happy and making baby things. Maybe a new line of things you put babies in. Or on. Either way, I feel like I'd be intruding. _But_ if you want privacy, you don't just sit around with your garage door open."

"You are such a strange girl."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Always over-analyzing. There is no need to be so insecure—"

I shake my head and lose my cool because I hate that word so, so much, even now when I know I'm not that word.

"Bella," Mom stops me, "calm down. If you're not going over now you have to help me with dinner."

"I'll just go over tomorrow."

"Good idea."

"Yeah, he's probably inside already. He turned off the music about half an hour ago."

"He's probably reading."

"How would you know?" I ask her.

"I see him a lot when I come and go during the day. He likes to read in the corner, right by the door that leads into the house. I bet that's what he's doing right now. You know, you should be reading, too. You're not going to pass if you spend the day by the kitchen door, hovering..."

"Mom..."

"I'll stop," she says, covering her mouth with her hand. "I'm done. No more interfering. I won't even ask about the boy you were talking to last night."

"Boy? Who? Liam? He's just a guy from school. He wanted to know where I'm staying when I go back... ew, _no_, Mom... because hotels around the test center are mostly booked. You're gross."

She continues smiling, and I ignore her, and then I'm out the door, because she's annoying, and I'm walking fast, and I know exactly what I'm walking toward, and if I think about it I'll stop, so I don't think about it, but really, I'm thinking about it. Thinking about not thinking about it.

There's no time to feel anything, to think anything when I'm finally there. No crazy emotions or happiness or sadness or fear or anxiety. Just him. Big eyes, so surprised. Book on the floor, standing up. So fast. Big, strong man arms around me. He smells like him, and his work, and that thing men smell like that you can't describe but you can't get enough of. And I take it in, and I lose myself, and I'm holding him tight and talking like I never left, like I didn't stop talking after the day he yelled at me, or after the night he hung up on me.

"You look good, too," he says. "You look great. You look... the same."

"You don't. You're all grown up now."

"Yeah, that's what I keep hearing."

"But in the best way. Like, not in a bad way. You don't look _old_."

"You look like a kid."

"Thanks." I frown. Then smile.

He's grinning, and he looks so happy. Like, caught the biggest fish (for a ten-year-old) in the lake happy. Like, Mom baked him his favorite cake for _my_ birthday happy. Like, I just told him no, really, it felt good, that was definitely an orgasm, I promise, happy. Just happy.

"So, I've been here for about a week, but I'll be here all summer, studying..."

He cuts me off with another hug, and when he lets go, he's pinching my cheek, something he always did to annoy me, but that's not his intention now.

"I'm sorry. I never called, I never emailed. I was a bad friend. I'm really sorry."

"No, no." I stop him because I can't listen to him say these things. I never could. "No, I was bad, too. We just... lost touch. It happens to everyone."

A little lie. Or a rewriting of history. But he accepts it when I stare at him and wait long enough.

"Yeah, it does. But you're back. Lemme show you what I've been doing."

And I listen to him speak. He shows and demonstrates and makes me sit on things and feel and touch and I'm impressed and happy, but I don't want to know what he's been doing. Because _this_—all this stuff in his garage, in his "office", are a small part of his life. And when he's done talking about them, there will be other things to talk about. And I just want to go. I want to leave before we're no longer alone here. I want to leave before I hear cries and find out my mom has three, four, or five neighbors, not just two. I want to run, but I sit, and when he says, "Yeah, that's about it. That's my life. Now tell me about yours," I'm ecstatic. Another lie. I accept it.

"Oh, where do I start?"

He shrugs, and I start talking, and I talk until a car pulls up. I get up—I'm the one pinching a cheek now, and I promise to come back. He doesn't say stay and say hello, so I tell him I'll see him again soon. Half question, half statement. He tells me to stop by tomorrow. It was good to see me. I tell him to shave. He laughs and says okay, he will. I can't wait to find out if he's kidding.

**Thanks for reading. Please, please let me know what you think. This story makes me really nervous. **

**mwahh**


	4. Chapter 4

**My beta, Writeontime, tells me when I'm gross, and when I forget the commas. Ciaobella27 is just awesome and too sweet. Thanks so much for everything, as always.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

I understand that it's strange, that it's not right, loving and caring and thinking like I do. It's important to stress that I've been distracted before—it hasn't always been about him. I've fallen in and out of different kinds of love. Edward hasn't been on my mind constantly, but he's been back there somewhere—memories of the best times giving me smiles and hope, and memories of the worst times reminding me to be more careful, watch where I go and what I do and who I do it with. Because the best boys, the kindest, sweetest boys with the warmest smiles and biggest hearts can take yours and shatter it. Just like the men who taught you to be the best person you can be can turn around and do things so wrong, that even years later you think maybe you missed something, because no one could be that cruel.

XxXxX

I let other boys distract me even before I knew I was in love with him.

My second high school party was also the night of my first real kiss. His name isn't important, even though he was in and out of my life for years after that night, always ready to pick me up or climb into a bed with me or just listen to anything I had to stay. He's the only one who ever got me, which is why he stuck around, and also why it took me longer to drive him away. I was never ready to give anything more than laughter and my body and the sweet words I had to let out—words that meant nothing because of who was receiving them.

He was older. Much older. A friend of Tanya's sister, who happened to be in Forks for the weekend because they wanted to explore some trails nearby. He kissed me outside Tanya's parents' bathroom, after we ended up at her house when Rosalie drank too much and had to sober up somewhere. My knees shook and I blushed and I thought I was going to die because I had no idea what I was doing. But he did, so he just continued until I had to try, and when I finally gave in I just continued trying, until he whispered please, please, please be twenty-one, and I giggled and said seventeen, and he pretended to hate my answer, but he actually really loved it. So he kissed me again and again, and I didn't even bother forgetting about the kisses I had witnessed earlier, at the party. I could do both—kiss this man and think about Edward's mouth on hers. I never had a problem with that. One had nothing to do with the other.

I was so cute that night. Mascara made my lashes longer, lip gloss made my mouth more interesting, and Edward had looked at me more than once, or even twice. I thought maybe... yes... tonight... but Rosalie came and she didn't let go of his arm, even when she suggested that Edward and I dance to a song we both loved. She said the words, but didn't let him leave her side. I still wonder if she even considered me a threat. I wonder what she knew and what she found out and what she knows now.

The man who kissed me took my number and promised he'd pretend to be a boy from class if he ever called and my parents picked up. When it was time to go, he walked me out to Edward's car and kissed me against it and said I was beautiful and to please call him, too.

Edward didn't care. He ignored it and didn't even look at me through the rear-view mirror once. He had always looked, up until that night. And then after that night he would look again, but it didn't matter, because when I was cute and hopeful and needed to know he was jealous, or that he cared, he made it obvious that he wasn't, and that he didn't. He dropped me off without a word and didn't wait for me to get inside, saying something about Rosalie's curfew and how he was late because I was _something something something_with an old man.

I never heard what he said, exactly.

Months later, his eyes big and shocked, he'd bring up the old man again.

"I thought, maybe, you guys had..."

"No." I was blushing so hard, shaking my head, desperate to convince him, even though he'd seen me wince and bite my lip so hard, and I had almost pushed him away. Not to mention the blood I hadn't expected to see once it was over.

"Good. He's old."

"So it would it have been okay—"

"Please don't kiss him again. Break up with him."

But the "old man" and I had never been together, and it was so, so funny that Edward would be the first to utter those words. First and last, actually.

I could've said a lot of things in response to Edward's request, but then he kissed my cheeks and then my neck, and his mouth was on my shoulders and his arms were so strong. My legs were once again pushed apart and his weight gave me an inexplicable thrill, and I had to ignore the pain and remind myself that it was him, and nothing was like him, and no one was like him, and if I let him do this he'd do it forever, and the nightmare I'd been living would be over. So I let him, over and over I let him, and it hurt but I let him, and I was sore but I let him. I was his new toy that morning in New York, and he tried out everything he could, and eventually he made me shake and gasp and think I'd just died. He was so proud of himself, so proud. He tried the new tricks he'd just learned to see what I'd do, how I'd react. It was exciting and surreal and I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't at some point, but by then he had begun to freak out, and I had to calm him down by convincing him that it was no big deal.

But I couldn't let him know that I knew he was freaking out.

"So that's it," I said when he finally let me go.

He looked at me, confused.

"I just mean... it was pretty cool, but no big deal. I thought it would be this big deal, it only happens once, you know? But, yeah." I shrugged.

I just didn't want to see him worried and upset because he had stolen my virtue and kept stealing more and more for hours until I had to push him off me.

But the worry I saw was gone and it was replaced with anger and disbelief, and he was the one pushing now—pushing me away—and my perfect morning was going to be ruined, so I flung myself at him and kissed him until he had to kiss me back. Until he had to look at me, asking, making sure, and I had to nod and bury my face in his neck, hoping he wouldn't notice the seconds of discomfort I felt when he pushed inside. And he didn't, because he was too busy closing his eyes and looking like he was concentrating so hard on something. But what? I had no idea. I put my fingers on his face, to ease the tension, like my touch would soften his features, would relax him and make him look into my eyes. Because when I dreamed of him, when I fantasized, he was always looking into my eyes. And that's when he'd get it, that we were meant to be together. But that couldn't happen unless he looked.

I thought it was over and I hadn't been paying attention when he pulled out of me, but he was only turning me over, onto my stomach. I thought maybe he wanted to do it from behind, and it made me nervous, and I think he wanted to try, but he probably became nervous, too, because all I felt was him against me, and his mouth on my shoulders and kisses along my back, and then he was moving and I was pushing, pushing, feeling a little dirty, getting too excited about how good that felt, the wrongness of it all—even though we'd just had _sex _and this wasn't even sex. When he came it was all over my back, and there were apologies, and once that was dealt with his fingers surprised me there, between my legs, and the joy I felt made me think my chest would explode.

Sweat and blood and a few tears I don't think he saw. We shared all of that, but then he forgot. He fell asleep on me on the flight back to Washington and insisted on driving me home alone, after dropping off his parents. I waited for a declaration, promises, but all I got was a kiss in the hallway before my mother appeared. It was long and hard and its effects gave away our secret, because mothers just know sometimes. It was nothing like the kiss he gave her the next morning at school. Quick kiss on her nose before he turned to me with big eyes, asking me to keep the secret for just a little longer. And why did I agree? And when did I agree? I guess it just happened, and I never break promises, even if I never really made them.

And I think I made another promise when I ran out of his garage today. A promise to come spend time with him when he's all by himself, but leave before we have to share each other with someone else. I'm not worried about what this means because I know that he's married and there are some lines I'd never cross. Back then, when we were kids and I was waiting for him to tell her he loved me, no one else, and in the deepest, craziest way, I didn't think of it as wrong. He was mine, and she was temporary and a mistake and he was starting to see that, and I loved him so much. But now he's a grown up version of a boy I loved, and while I want to touch his face and spend a lifetime letting him undo everything he's done to me, I know it won't happen. She's permanent. She is his life. And I'm feeling nostalgic and silly because I'd rather focus on my former best friend and our awkward attempts at sex and intimacy instead of the bar exam.

The days keep disappearing, and they'll only just disappear more quickly if I daydream and obsess over my neighbor and his beard and his strong, strong hands. The way his cigarette just sits there, hanging from his mouth like it's going to fall out _right _now, but never does. When and why did he pick up that habit, and will he have to let it go when his wife tells him they need to redecorate Jessica Stanley's old bedroom and turn it into the happiest, safest place in the universe, for the most important person or people they'll ever meet?

I can't stop thinking about that. I want to know, but I can't ask. I've always been curious, maybe even a little nosy. And something like this? I need to find out whether or not she's pregnant, and if he knows. And if she is, he must, and maybe he didn't mention it to me because it's too early to tell people. Is he excited? Scared? Relieved? Does he feel trapped, or is this his dream come true?

Why can't we ask people the questions that matter? Why can't we expect honesty and openness? Because I really want to know so much about his life—especially the parts we didn't discuss. Why, why, why, why? And none of the questions have to do with me. For instance, I wouldn't be asking, "Why didn't you leave her?" or "Why me?" The answers to those questions are pretty obvious. "Why would I?" and "Because you were there." Who wants to hear that? But I do want to ask him why he married her when he did, and what he felt on that day, and the next day, and every day until the one that's ending soon, and probably beyond that.

XxXxX

"I think you should come, it'll be fun," he insists.

"Yeah, I didn't bother packing—"

"What? A swimsuit? There's got to be something in your room."

"Nothing that fits."

I blush, and he laughs, and I bet he's blushing under the beard that he never shaved off.

"Remember?" he asks me.

"I do."

"You still have it? The green one?"

"You remember the color?"

"I turned into a man that day, Bella."

His words make me laugh out loud; it's almost a shriek.

"I'm pretty sure that didn't happen for another couple of months…" I tell him.

"No, I'm pretty sure that was the day."

"_No,_" I stress, "we didn't have sex until we were in New York."

"Who's talking about sex?"

He whispers the word, just like I did.

"Oh…"

"Go find the green bikini. I'll wait for you here."

"Didn't you want to take a look at my laptop?" I ask, because he did, and it's in my room.

"Oh yeah, let's do that."

Mom ignores us and says nothing when we pass her on our way up to my room. She'll probably have lots to say later, when it's just the two of us in front of the TV. Edward comments on various changes, and tries to find the floorboards we used to avoid when we didn't want anyone to hear that we were coming or going. His hands cover his ears when I open the door to my room—it's just as loud and squeaky as it was years ago.

"This is crazy. I feel like a kid again," he tells me.

"Stay off my bed. I just made it."

"Sure. Where's the laptop?"

"There." I point to it. "It's not plugged in. Could you plug it in?"

"Cool, it just… _nice_. Magnetic, huh?"

"Yes, grandpa."

It takes me two seconds to find the bikini. It's always been in the same spot. It's tiny, and it didn't fit properly when I was seventeen, so it's not going to cover a thing now. I hold it up for him to see and he keeps insisting that it will fit.

"Come on," he says, lying down on my bed. He never listens. "Try it on."

When I roll my eyes at him and say "No" one last time, he grins. "I'm not being a pervert, Bella. Don't look at me like that. I'm a married man." He holds up his left hand, but there's no ring. "Yeah, whatever, so I lost it. Imagine a ring there."

"When'd you lose it?"

He shrugs. "Who knows?"

"Rosalie doesn't care?"

"Oh, she cares."

"I want to hear more about your marriage."

"Pretty boring stuff, Swan."

"Let me be the judge," I say. "I don't have too many married friends. I have _questions._"

"Something you want to tell me? A secret? Do I need to be interrogating some guy, making sure—"

"Nothing like that. I'm just curious."

He places the laptop that has been sitting on his thighs back on my bed and sighs.

"Fine, figure out your bikini or whatever situation and wear something, and we'll talk on our way."

I do a little dance, a sort of victory dance, because I won, and he's going to talk. It makes him smile a barely-there half-smile which I want to hold onto. He pinches my cheek and walks out of my room, and I miss the boy who would have begged to stay.

**I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. I've had a busy couple of weeks, and I'll be updating again really soon.**

**Thanks so much for the sweet reviews, tweets, PMs. You guys are the best, and I love hearing from you, it makes me so happy.**

**mwah**


	5. Chapter 5

**thanks so much to my beta, Writeontime, and Ciaobella27.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

The whole bikini argument makes me think of the first time he insisted I wear those tiny pieces of nothing. He says he became a man that day, but I think he's being silly, because he'd been with Rose for a while at that point. And although he was a virgin until the first time he pushed into me months later, I'm sure they'd done things, and the innocent ten minutes we spent on my bed couldn't have been life-altering in any way.

The conversation that day went something like this:

"You had this green one you wore at the lake the summer before ninth grade."

"That won't fit."

"Sure it will."

(I'm pretty sure this made me frown, because I had grown since that summer, a lot, and he hadn't noticed.)

"Bella, we're going to be late."

"I don't care; I'm not going. I can't swim in my underwear."

"Maybe you can borrow one of Ros—"

"_No_."

I decided to ignore my best friend who was sitting on my bed, and pulled off my jeans. Then I pulled off my top. Then I turned around and unhooked my bra and thought about flinging it behind me, towards him, but I held onto it instead, trying to cover my chest with it while I struggled with the bikini top. There was no way I could take off anything else. No way. I was stuck.

I was wearing black cotton underwear. Simple, but it had made me feel grown up, because it was black, and it looked nice against my skin, and there was this tiny bow, and maybe he'd notice it. That's all I was wearing when I struggled into the green bikini top, which wasn't too small. It still fit. There was more to show off, but it still fit. I turned around and told him to wait outside or close his eyes. He buried his face in my pillow, and I trusted him. I still don't know whether or not he peeked.

The bikini bottoms were too small. I had grown up, just a little, and I felt satisfied, because I was right, and I could tell him, see? This doesn't fit. We should just hang out here. Forget everyone else.

And for a while, that's what happened. Dad came home and we heard him downstairs, and Mom was upset, and then we stopped hearing Dad, because he was being the kind of quiet that drove Mom to keep talking and talking. Then she'd start arguments, and if she was lucky, he'd bite, but her luck had run out.

I sat on the bed next to Edward, who put an arm around my shoulders and told me everything fit, and we could leave. We argued—it was a great distraction—and Edward was always ready to argue, but he was also quick to tire of it. Exasperated, I lay down, feeling the straps that I had tied behind my neck pinching my skin. I had tied them too tight, so I loosened them a bit. Lying flat on my back like that, my chest was nonexistent. I remember thinking about what Edward saw, and what he was used to seeing. Rosalie had breasts, like real ones. Way more than a handful, they were always pushed up and so close together, like they were in a fight. There was only room for one of them in that shirt, and it was a constant struggle, one every boy (and man) in Forks was interested in. Rosalie wouldn't fit into that old top, I thought.

But I guess, unlike me, he hadn't been thinking about Rosalie.

Because at some point, as we were lying down on my bed, he kissed me.

I can't describe the kiss. I must have blocked it from my memory. But it's right there, and if I let myself think long enough, or try just for a second to remember it, I will, and I can't. I haven't yet. I can think about everything else, but not that first kiss. I can think of how heavy he was, even though he used to be so thin, so much smaller than he is now. I can think of how my eyes popped open when I felt his hands go up my sides, then down. His hands. On me. And they felt bigger than anything I'd felt, and I wanted to watch them touch me. I still do.

I was probably shaking. I was probably blushing. I was probably this small, scared mess under him. Not calm or ready enough to be happy—the delirious kind of happy that I had always expected to be when he finally kissed me. But I was so aware. Aware of everything that was going on. So aware that it was like none of it was happening to me, like it was something I was observing, and not taking part in. But there I was, kissing back, and reaching out to touch him, and touching him, but stopping almost immediately, and he probably didn't notice, because he had thrown himself into us, into that moment.

Or maybe he was just a very horny seventeen-year-old boy, cheating on his girlfriend with his best friend, stopping to stare down at her body. All flushed cheeks and the same swollen mouth she'd been obsessed with for weeks. She could do it, too. She could get him to look like that. And this thrilled her to no end.

I can make this sound like it was the most erotic experience of my life. In some ways it was, because I was lying down, staring up at him, and his eyes left my face and settled on my chest, and I wanted to die when I noticed that my breast had escaped from the loose bikini top. Mortification, embarrassment, thinking he'd just jump off the bed now, pretend this never happened, or make a stupid joke that would have killed me. Instead, he did the unthinkable. Something I hadn't even considered. And it happened so fast that I couldn't stop him.

And I would never be able to forgive myself if I had stopped him. Those lips. His tongue. The absolute shock of feeling them on me. The way he just sucked, and then just barely licked, and then kissed. Everything ached. I wanted to press something between my legs, I wanted to make it go away. And that thing in my stomach that felt a little too much like nausea, but I still choose to call butterflies? Oh, it killed me. It was like I was going up and down on an endless roller coaster, and it made me dizzier than ever, and I wanted it to stop just so I could make sure I was okay, that I could survive it, but if it stopped, would I be able to start it again?

Footsteps came, and we waited a second too long, and the door cracked open but then quickly shut. That night, Mom told me about boys, and said that Edward was a lovely one, but that he couldn't take advantage of me like that. Not while he had a girlfriend. I should tell him that, she said. I told her it was stupid, and wouldn't happen again. She hugged me long and hard, but I don't think she believed me. I wasn't lying to her, but I was wrong.

XxXxX

The green top still fits. I won't be taking off my shorts, though.

Edward's eyes are sparkling. His beard is so, so blonde in the sun.

I forgot to bring my sunglasses, but that's okay, because I wouldn't want to be experiencing this day through them. His eyes would be sparkling less, and everything would be darker, and it's been dark enough for so long. Even earlier today, it had looked like it was going to rain, and we were forced to change our plans—no boat ride with Emmett. I decided to study, but the sun came out, and Edward was in our kitchen, telling me we _had_ to jump in the pool. He's so proud of his pool.

Except I didn't jump in. I'm sitting here, on the edge, my feet avoiding the cold water that Edward is swimming in so comfortably.

I've watched him enough. I've skimmed my notes over and over, and retained nothing. I put them away, and when he's looking at me again, I speak.

"So, tell me about… marriage."

"Well, it's the union of—"

"Oh, shut it. I want to know everything. The proposal, the wedding, everything before and after. Fill me in."

"Come on, Bella. You know the story."

"No, I don't."

He doesn't believe me.

"All I know is that you're married to your high school sweetheart. But I missed all of it."

And thank God I did. And why do I want to find out now?

"Your mom didn't tell you?" he asks. "None of your friends said anything?"

"Tanya told me you got married. I didn't believe her. She'd heard from her mom."

I waited for my own mother to tell me, to say something, bring it up, but she didn't, so eventually I had to ask. The "oh, sweetie" I heard almost made me drop my phone.

"It's just," I continue, "I don't want to offend you, or say the wrong thing, but… you guys were_ really_ young. So I was curious. I'm still pretty curious."

"I assumed you knew. That maybe your mom had told you."

I shake my head, and now he believes me. He swims over to me, but he doesn't get out of the pool.

"You know I was going to school in Tacoma," he starts. I nod. "Well, I came back for Christmas break, and Rose told me she was pregnant."

"Oh."

"You didn't know about that?" he asks me.

"No, I mean, there were rumors at the time, but then… wow. That's crazy."

"Yeah. So we told my parents. Rose had already told her mom. We decided to get married that summer, and I was scared, but I was… I guess everyone took it so well that I was relieved and _happy_? I'd had a rough year. I wasn't happy being away. I hated school. The idea of having someone with me, of being with Rose, not being apart—I was thrilled. I mean, I was also very nervous, but mom and dad were so supportive, and Rose needed me... Anyway, we were planning a wedding, and I was gonna move back to Forks at the beginning of summer. We'd be living with her mom, and I'd be taking classes in Port Angeles in the fall. Her mom wasn't happy, but once she saw that I was serious… Anyway, I went back to school, and a few weeks later Rose lost the baby."

"I'm so sorry."

I'm genuinely sorry. For my sweet friend, for the boy who grew up too fast, for not knowing about this when it mattered.

"So I went back," he continues. "She was still in school at the time. Rose was a wreck, Bella. She was devastated. She didn't want me to go back to Tacoma, so I stayed."

"You dropped out?"

I don't think I'm imagining the blush that I see spreading over his face. I can feel _my_ face just crumbling, like it's actually in pieces, on the floor, or I guess in the water, and this story, what happened so many years ago, shouldn't be affecting me this way. But it is. And I'm sad for him, and I want to hold him now and be his best friend, but God help me, I'm also jealous. _Happy. Thrilled_. I didn't want him to be those things.

"Yeah. I thought, why not? I was going to transfer eventually. She needed me. Except once I was in Forks, I couldn't even be there for her. Her mom wouldn't let me stay over, she wouldn't let me be with my girlfriend who had just lost our baby. Anyway, we were young and crazy and so fucking sad, so we just went and got married. Try keeping us apart now."

I'm not sure what to tell him, because I'm not sure how I feel. I'll be thinking about this when I'm alone, and I'll probably bring it up when I'm sitting with Mom in front of the TV tonight, and then I'll be thinking about it some more.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," I squeak. It's too fast, and I'm a little flustered, because he knows I'm thinking about what he just told me, and I don't want him to think that I'm judging him, judging this choice that he made. Was it even a _choice_? It sounds like they were stupid, impulsive kids, doing something just because they could.

"But you stayed together."

"Yeah, we stayed together. Why wouldn't we?"

I shrug, and I lie a little bit. "No, I just meant, it's pretty cool. You were so young, but you…made it. Look at you, you're grown up, married to someone so pretty, you have your work, your hobbies, a home. A _pool_, in _Forks_."

"I always wanted one."

"Oh, I know. We were gonna get one, and share it."

"Good thing you're right next door. We can share it now," he says.

"Your wife might object."

"Nah, she hates this thing."

"It _is_ pretty ugly."

"Hey…"

I giggle. He jumps at me, like he's going to attack me, pull me into the water, or untie my top, like he used to pretend he was going to when we were kids. He never actually tried it then. He's certainly not going to try it now.

"Does she know?" I blurt out.

And he knows what I'm asking.

"No. Of course not."

"Cool."

A few seconds pass that are too, too quiet. Then he splashes me. I splash him right back.

**DeeDreamer16 mentioned this story on RAoR. Thanks so, so much.**

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**xo**


	6. Chapter 6

**thank you Nina and Tracy, I love you. **

**I don't own Twilight.**

I'm fascinated. The rise and fall of their voices. Her words. His words back. Not enough, because I can't quite make out what they're arguing about. Overly dramatic. His name being shouted repeatedly. Like he can't hear it, but he can, because his voice is loud and booming when he finally says, "What?" And she must be calmer now, because I can't hear a thing. Doors slam shut, and she's back. Her voice full of frustration and _so_ much anger.

"They're having a private conversation behind closed doors, as husband and wife. Stop being nosy."

"It's not a private conversation if the entire street can hear them."

Mom shakes her head. "Sometimes people get carried away. It's rude to do what you're doing."

"How can you just sit there and not listen?"

"It's easy," she says. "Don't you have practice tests to take? If you keep this up, you're going to—"

"I'll be fine."

Curiosity has me standing by the door, which I've cracked open, just barely, but enough. I think that if I try a little harder, and if Mom stops making noise around the kitchen, and the breeze stops messing with the leaves, I'll pick up entire sentences, and I'll figure it out. But I think they're done. I hear nothing now.

It's bizarre to me that they fight like this. It's so familiar, the back and forth. Standing here and trying to catch every word reminds me of how I'd lie down on my bed, so quiet and still, and listen to Mom and Dad. I wanted to know exactly what each fight was about, because maybe I could do something about it. Drop a hint here, or there, as if they needed my hints, or my help.

I always thought Dad was the more reasonable one, so I'd try him first. Didn't he think we needed to do something about the lawn? It looked terrible compared to the Stanleys' lawn. Dad couldn't stand Mr. Stanley and his brand new cars and their endless vacations. Maybe he'd do something about the lawn, and Mom wouldn't bring it up anymore. But by then she would have moved onto something else. I thought she was so ridiculous, always asking, complaining, whining. But I don't think Mom gave a shit about the lawn, or the white socks he wore, or the way he used his fingers and only his fingers to eat the chicken. All of that would have been forgiven, if he'd just paid a little more attention.

Everything was about him. He filled every silence. _She_ was all about him, but only when he wasn't around. She'd turn cold minutes after he'd appear. Stiffer, so uncomfortable in that same chair she'd been chatting and laughing in right before he walked in. A two-second delay in his response, or his eyes on that spot just behind her would take her away. And I'd want to bring her back.

So when we were alone, I'd ask her about them—the people they were before me. About the romance and the waiting and the letters. Except I'd never ask about any of it specifically. I'd bring something up. It would work like a trigger. I knew exactly what to say to make her talk. Because I thought maybe if she talked, she'd remember, and things would be good. Or maybe I wanted to hear every word and save them just in case, because if I didn't, no one would. But I'd always be afraid of asking too much, making her think or feel too much. Because as happy as she was when she remembered, I knew it must have been bittersweet, because those people were gone, or one of them was, and the other still tried so hard to stay alive. So I'd abruptly change the subject. And I'd never get beyond those same few stories.

But I know those stories so well. Better than they do, I bet. So if Mom and Dad ever want to remember, they should just come to me. I wasn't there, but I haven't forgotten. I just can't believe they did.

XxXxX

My weekend of voyeurism continues.

Sitting in my room, I'm watching them through the window, and I'm seventeen again, and if seeing them together after all these years doesn't hurt, thinking back to the early days of their relationship does the trick. My chest aches, my throat feels funny, and I want to forget the pathetic girl who was so, so jealous, so in love.

The pain I'm feeling has nothing to do with the present, with their marriage. I'm at peace with all of that; I have been for years now. But it took me a while. A long while. And it's hard to forget the girl who cried herself to sleep every night after she lost her best friend, her lover. Because by then he was both. And she didn't know who she missed more.

They're still so beautiful together. It's different, watching them do such domestic things. She loves her plants. He must love her. She tells him to do _this_, and he does. _That, _and it's done. I wait for them to sit, to talk, to just be, but they're in and out, back and forth, and I need to stop.

I remember watching them when we were kids. Always in awe of how beautiful they looked together. Always leaning against each other, touching, smiling. She was _always_ smiling. Stretching in his arms. Nuzzling, holding, laughing. All sunshine, and blonde, and bronze, and slow kisses, and fingers in hair, and time slowed down when you were watching them. I watched a lot.

That entire time, all those months, and even after we stopped talking and I had to watch from far away, she never once caught me. She was in her own world, and I was nothing. I wasn't offended, because I understood. And if she had caught me staring, I would have died. So I'm not sure why I don't move when I see her get up, brush the dirt off her hands on the old pair of jeans she's wearing, and look around. It's like I'm waiting for her to notice me, and she does. And I don't know what to do when she waves. The wave I return is weak, but I smile, because she's smiling. I'm glad she knows exactly when to stop and turn around, because I'm terrible at things like that.

XxXxX

"So Rose thinks you should come over for dinner or something."

I rest my feet against his thigh. My toes look funny, and the blue nail polish I used looks childish, but it's too late, they're there, and he's staring at my feet, and I think he stares up my legs.

"Sure."

"Really?" he asks, and he's about to touch me, grab my feet like he used to, and the idea still grosses me out, just like it used to, but he doesn't do it. He stretches his arms above his head instead, and rests his head against the wall, tired and lazy. Just like I feel.

"Yeah, but no fighting."

"Huh? Why would you say that?"

"You guys were really going at it the other day," I say.

"Oh, _that_."

"Yep, _that._" But I still don't know what "that" is. I had to stop listening to "that" because Mom was right, I needed to study. So I found a lecture I had to listen to, and hit "play" to immerse myself in the fascinating world of covenants.

"...I keep telling her, I can get a better job if we move out of here. Emmett's cousin owns a business, and he's looking for an accountant. Simple stuff. Stuff I can do. Hell of a lot better than what I do here."

"I thought you loved this. The furniture, the kids." Smiling, I pat the bench we're sitting on.

"I do," he says, looking at me with the greenest eyes. "But it's just a hobby. And the kids... Bella, I've never been good at sports. I hate sports. Emmett hired me because I was desperate. Yeah, it worked out, and yeah, the kids like me, they look up to me, and I love them, but..."

"Sounds so much more interesting and fun than accounting."

"It's just, I've never had a _real_ job like that, you know? In an office, in a city. If you don't count Tacoma, I've never really left Forks."

"So, if you really want to try something different, and there's an opportunity... why does she want to stay?" I ask him.

"Her mom. She won't leave her behind. I keep telling her, 'Rose, it's Seattle, not Mars', but she won't listen. And she loves her job. Bella, she's not even the _head _guidance counselor, but she loves her job and won't leave it."

"Mom was telling me she's really great with kids."

"She is. They love her, even if she _is_ constantly preaching abstinence like it's her life's only purpose."

"Wait, _what?_"

I sit up, convinced that he's messing with me, trying to get me to wake up and really start to listen and participate in this conversation. He's serious, though, but once he looks at my face, he's laughing and shaking his head, and his hand finally settles on my feet. I breathe. And then again. And then again. We're good. I think. But we're really not, because I'll be thinking about this a lot, and I won't be able to focus on anything. I should go, but I don't want to.

"I'm serious. Abstinence. It's her thing. She's passionate about it."

"Is she... really conservative? She's a Republican?"

"I guess, I mean, she's not really interested in politics, but this is important to her."

"Wow." I giggle. And then I'm laughing out loud.

"What?"

"It's just... I don't know, bizarre."

"Why?" he asks.

"It just is. I don't know, you see these things on the news, schools that push the whole 'abstinence only' thing, and you think, wow, who are those freaks? And you assume they're crazy Jesus freaks..." I stop.

"Wait, are you guys..."

"Christians?" he finishes for me.

I shrug, then nod. Are they?

"We go to her mom's church from time to time, but you know how I was brought up."

Church. From time to time. I picture them walking in together, sitting down together, leaving together when it's over, talking to people together, like Angela Webber's dad. I wonder what his parents think about this.

"Hmm... speaking of your upbringing, how are Esme and Carlisle?"

"Good. I told Mom we've been hanging out. She can't wait to see you."

"I can't wait to see _her_," I tell him.

"I'll take you, then. Soon."

"Yeah. I need to study today and tomorrow, like, nonstop, but maybe after that?"

"Sure."

Edward smiles and grabs my wrists, pulling me closer to him. I'm practically on his lap. I don't just let go, though. I don't go limp in his arms, or melt into his touch. I'm trying my best not to do those things.

"I can't believe you went to law school. You're gonna be a lawyer. Bella's gonna be a lawyer. That sounds crazy," he says.

"I sort of _am _a lawyer. I mean, I graduated, and... I just have to take this test..."

"What happens after the test?"

"I start my job in September."

"In Seattle," he says. He remembers.

"Yes."

"Close enough."

"Too close," I tell him, and I push him away with a smile.

"Sorry."

I pinch his cheek, like he always pinches mine. Even though his beard is thick and covers his entire face I can tell that he's blushing, and he's a little flustered, and I don't want him to be.

"It's okay."

It really is.

"It's just natural, you know? We've always been close like this," he reminds me. "I didn't mean—"

"No, I know, but... I mean, I guess it's fine. It's just, if anyone sees us, it looks wrong, so I had to say something, but now I've made things awkward, and I don't want that. I know you don't mean anything by it."

"I don't."

"I _know_."

I pat him on the head and say "good boy" until he's laughing and slapping my hand away. I get up and start walking toward our kitchen door.

"So, is there someone who wouldn't want you sitting on my lap? A boyfriend or something?" he asks, following me into the kitchen.

"Not right now."

"Come on, no one?"

"No." I don't need to tell him about the boys I liked and the ones who liked me back, who still do, I think. But I'm here, and they're there, and I was never really into it.

"There has—"

"Do you really want to hear me talk about my boyfriends? I'd rather hear more about Forks High School's abstinence program."

"I'll give you some pamphlets."

Giggling, I ask, "She brings them home?"

He nods. I can tell he doesn't want to be teased about it. And he doesn't want to laugh at her behind her back. Or maybe he agrees with her, believes in it, too, but is just too embarrassed to tell me. I'm dying to find out.

"You know, I'm glad you two are married, because it would really suck if she decided all of a sudden that sex out of wedlock was bad."

"Yeah, like sex _within _wedlock exists," he jokes.

"I don't even want to go there." I shudder.

"Especially since we moved next door to your mom."

"Ew. What? What does Mom have to do with anything?"

He sits on the counter, and grabs one of the apples Mom washed for me this morning. I wait for the crunch, my favorite part, and it must be a juicy apple, because his lips are so wet. His beard, too. Gross.

"First of all, we'd have to be really quiet," he whispers. "Remember being in your room when Mike Newton would sneak in next door? We were able to hear everything that went on in Jessica's room. Remember the time he fell off her bed? I can't have your poor mother hearing Rose's—"

"Shut _up_!"

He's laughing, but I'm not. I remember those times. I particularly remember the time Mike fell. I remember because Edward was in my bed, and he wasn't supposed to be there. And we had to be extra quiet, and turn off all the lights, and not speak, and barely move... and I don't care if it's normal to joke around about your sex life with your wife. I don't want to hear it. And if he doesn't understand why, then I don't know.

"You brought it up," he says.

"Don't be gross. I don't want to know anything about your sex life."

"Prude."

But his voice is soft, and he knows he messed up.

"This is just inappropriate," I whisper. "No more touching like that, and no sex talk. Please. It's disrespectful."

He never listens. His arm is around my shoulder, and he's apologizing. His voice is the lowest, and softest, and if I didn't have that little bit of dignity, that tiny bit of self respect left in me, I'd be crying.

"What's wrong?" he asks, setting the apple on the counter top.

I'm about to say "nothing" until he's squeezing me tighter, and smelling so nice, and I'm floating away, lost in the comfort he provides.

"Sorry, I'm just tired and... overwhelmed. This exam is making me sick."

"I get that," he says. "Of course."

"I have so much work to do, but I'd rather be hanging out with you. But when I'm with you I think Mom's all alone, and she's been looking forward to spending some time with me for years... But, it's like, I just hate seeing her like this. She's all alone. It kills me. I finally got her to leave the house this morning, and she actually _texted _me about how much she hates socializing with people."

"Bella, she's fine. I see her all the time..."

"I know. I _know_. I'm just..."

"You're tired."

I nod. "Yes."

"Listen, maybe you need to focus on your test right now. I can leave. Then by the time Renee gets back, you'll be able to spend some time with her."

But I bring my hands to his chest, and grab his shirt.

"No. I really, really don't want to study."

"Okay... okay." He's thinking, and then thinking some more, and then, "but you have to. You know that, right?"

I let go. "Yeah."

"So I'll help you. Where are your notes? I'll ask you stuff..."

"You mean my outlines." I point to the kitchen table. "There."

"That's a lot of paper. What..."

"Pick whatever. I should know it all by now, except I know nothing."

I just know that I want you to stay, until the last week of July is here and I have to leave.

"Okay," he says, his eyes on the words that have been driving me crazy for weeks now. He takes a deep breath, like he's the one who's about to be tested. "This looks pretty boring, but let's start here..."

Yes, let's.

**guys, thanks so much for the support, for the kind words, everything.**

**i've written a bunch of stuff to use as "flashbacks" but they don't really fit into the story anymore, so i'll be sharing those with you guys when i reply to your reviews. nothing crazy, just a little bit of e/b/r from the high school years.**

**mwah**


	7. Chapter 7

**short chapter. it's been a busy, busy week. i'll try to update really, really soon. i mean it.**

**merci, Nina and Tracy.**

**I don't own Twilight**

"You still hide like that. You're so funny." He's laughing at me, at the way I've hidden my face inside this hoodie, my hands, too. Lost and sleepy and so content. I used to do it because I liked hiding from people, taking little breaks from conversations. Now it's just something I do.

"I'm sleepy." I've been studying extra hard these past couple of days, and he stops by in the afternoon to "help"—most of the time just sits and watches me do endless multiple choice questions.

"That's it. I want my sweater back. I didn't let you wear it so that you can take naps in it."

"But I always nap in your stuff," I whine.

He pulls back the hood and messes up my hair. I start snapping away, like I'm going to bite his hand, and we're giggling and stupid until Mom walks in.

"Edward, I just saw Rose throw some bags into the car. Are you two going on a trip?" she asks.

"No, we're just staying with her mom until I get someone to install a new air conditioner. Well, Rose is. I don't think it's that hot."

I kick him under the table. I'm up now, a little feisty and playful, maybe in the mood for an argument or two. "Why don't you install it yourself?"

"Me?" Edward smiles. "Too much work."

"So lazy. I've installed plenty of units, I can do it," I offer.

"Are you serious? You installed them yourself?"

"I had to. So if you need help..."

"It's fine," he says. "I'd probably have to help you, and I just want to sit back and let someone else take care of it."

"So, so lazy."

"Rose isn't lazy, she's waiting for me to do it. It's the _principle_of the thing... Women."

"Was that you doing Rosalie's voice?" I ask with a giggle. Mom leaves the kitchen, shaking her head.

"Yeah. How'd I sound?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't remember what she sounds like."

_Unless she's shouting._But I don't add that.

"It's been a while, huh?"

"Long time," I whisper with a smile.

"Why didn't you visit more often? Stay longer?"

"Busy... school, internships. And you know, Mom always wanted to visit, or meet up in Phoenix to see Grandma. I was going to spend the holidays here two Christmases ago, but she decided she wanted to spend Christmas in Paris. It was nice."

"Rose wants to go to Paris."

"Take her."

"I don't think she wants to go with me."

What a sad thing to say, but he's smiling a lot, so maybe it's not that sad.

"Who would she want to go with?" My voice is soft, my words come out slowly, like I'm testing the waters. Is this okay, Edward?

"I'm just kidding. I mean, I guess we'd go together. It's just... I don't know, things have been tough lately."

"What's wrong?" When did my voice get even softer? When did my hand reach out to brush the hair out of his eye?

"Nothing's wrong. It's just always the same thing."

"You mean, marriage? Like, it's boring?"

"It's not _boring_, it just _is._But I meant, it's always the same fights, same arguments. You get tired, you know?"

I nod. "I bet."

"For example, the thing I told you about leaving this place. We've been arguing about that for years. She won, we bought the house. I figured hey, it's an investment, it's something. Owning some property, you know? We could always sell it. But now... it's like, it keeps me here, and she hates it, because every penny we make goes toward fixing it up, or new furniture, and it's still a piece of shit."

He leans back in his chair and takes one of those really dramatic deep breaths. Long exhale.

"I thought she loved it. She's always in the back..."

"She loves the garden," he confirms. "The only time she spends here, she's working on the garden. She closed off the patio in the back, and has her own little space now. If I leave anything lying around... I don't know. The house was a mistake."

"You _could _always sell it."

He looks at me like I'm stupid. "_You_try selling that thing. It's hopeless."

"I think it's a great house, Edward. Dad used to be so jealous of Mr. Stanley. The garden, the front yard, the porch. It's beautiful. It feels like home, you know? It's your home, and it's gorgeous."

"Thanks," he says. I don't think he believes me, though. "But it really is a mess."

"And it's so big."

"Too big."

"Come on, be positive," I tell him. "I used to live in the smallest apartment ever. Nowhere to move. My bed took up my entire room. No space for clothes. There was a mouse. But I was so happy there."

"This was in New York?"

"Yeah."

"You know, I haven't been since our trip."

In my fantasies, you were there a thousand times. Back then, when we were tourists together with your mom and dad, I imagined us living there, walking together along the big avenues, kissing in narrow streets. All places New Yorkers would stay away from, but I didn't know anything back then. Just that I wanted you there, and you would've been so beautiful there. I'd pretend it was happening, and then when it _was_, but without _you_, I'd pretend that you'd be joining me. Our reunion after a phone call that would fix everything. I'd daydream about it, I'd make changes to each scene I imagined to make my skirt cuter, your arms tighter around me, but you were always there. I wish I could tell you about all the things you saw, all the things we did.

"It's so different when you actually live there. Like, when I think about that trip, it's like we were visiting another city. It's nothing like that. But sometimes I'll be walking through Times Square, hating everyone who's in my way, and I remember how scared I was that first time."

"I remember that. You kept grabbing me. I loved it... that place was crazy," he says.

"Then I look up at the Marriott, and think... oh man, it's been so long."

He looks away, I can't tell what he's thinking, feeling. Is this awkward? It doesn't feel awkward.

"Rose went to New York with her friends from school. She went to a bunch of shows. She liked the shows, hated New York. She thought it was dirty."

I'm irritated. I don't want to show it, but sometimes you just can't stop, right? And the words just come out, not as bad as I'd expected them to be, and maybe I don't sound irritated, bitter.

"_Someone_has terrible taste in cities, towns. I guess I'm not surprised, though, I mean, she seems to love Forks so much."

Our eyes meet, and he's shaking his head, the smallest of smiles on his lips.

"I should get going," he tells me. "Dinner's probably ready. You're welcome to join us. I'm not going to keep repeating myself."

"I'm good, thanks. I need to listen to a few lectures."

"You really don't want to come over, huh?"

"Not really," I admit.

"I guess you two were never really friends."

"We weren't."

He gets up, and I do the same. I take off his hoodie and hand it back to him. He brings it to his face.

"It smells like you now."

"Lucky you." I wink.

We laugh. And this weird flirting that's not really flirting feels like it belongs back in high school, like we're saying or doing silly things that we never got a chance to do, because we went from brother and sister to something I still can't define, because all the terms for it are ugly and wrong.

I'm standing here after my wink, waiting for him to leave, my eyes on the hoodie I was just wearing, then up the arm that's holding it now. It's so different from the younger one I knew, and maybe I'm not just blushing. Maybe this heat is something else. I can't stop staring.

And the way he looks at me. Looks at everything. Up and down and into my eyes and over and under and I just stand here, letting him, maybe just distracting him a little when I shift a bit, moving my hips, then capturing some hair between my fingers. What is he doing? What am I doing? Absolutely nothing, but that's a lie. And it's hot between my legs, and I don't doubt that he feels the same heat. And once a day we stand or sit like this, saying nothing, and it reminds me of mistakes I've made in the past, but those mistakes are the only memories that are fun or interesting enough to keep bringing back, to think about. And what a mistake he would be, but it won't happen, and this summer is the worst kind of tease.

"See you tomorrow."

I shake my head. "I'm going to Seattle tomorrow for a couple of days. Liam and I are going to go through some practice tests. Real testing conditions, or whatever."

He tightens his fingers around the sweater. I notice, because it's where I'm looking, because I know him, and I know what to look for. I can't describe the triumph I feel, the accomplishment. He's jealous.

It's only after our casual goodbyes that I realize how pathetic this is. He goes home to have dinner with his wife, and I'm celebrating a second of jealousy, all alone. And he's the same boy he was years ago, nothing has changed. I bet if I just let him... if I suggested... if I touched... And it makes me angry. I want to think of him as good, as perfect, as lovely. All the things he was before he met her. Or all the things he was before that first time he placed his mouth on my chest. But I think he's the same. And I want to be evil and delight in the fact that she's still nothing to him, that he'd climb up the stairs and into my bed with me if I let him. But then what about the sweet boy I knew before those brief few months? Shouldn't I be mourning his loss? Shouldn't I want him to be good?

And this is why I'm leaving tomorrow. I need a break. A break from Mom and Edward and the idea of Rosalie living right next door. Just a couple of days to remind myself that I've been a person, an actual person, for years now. Someone who didn't think about these people every day, every minute. Someone who worked hard, learned a thousand new things, loved, played, and forgot.

But then when he texts me "goodnight" a few hours later, I know that I don't want to leave.

**A couple of you asked, so I thought I'd bring it up… the little e/b thing I sent in my review replies took place back in high school. I'm sorry that wasn't clear. I'll be sending out more, and I'll probably add a date or something to the stuff I send for this chapter. **

**Thanks so, so much for reading. Tell me things. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks so much to Writeontime and Ciaobella27.**

**I don't own Twilight**

I tell Liam all about Edward. Tanya warned me not to when I spoke to her last night. "Don't tell the boy who likes you about the guy you've been obsessed with for years." She thinks there's a pattern—I sabotage any potential relationships with men who seem interested, genuine, and ready for commitment. I make sure to put a stop to things with strange or just bad behavior. Maybe she's right, because I'm doing it right now, watching his face fall, sensing the confusion. _Why is she telling me this? What am I supposed to do with this information? Doesn't she know I'm into her? I guess we're just friends?_

Yeah, I guess we're just friends.

"Anyway, I can't help but wonder if he's unhappy. He seems... content, but who wants to be 'content' forever? Just '_conten_t', you know?"

"Are you..." Liam starts. "Are you guys..."

"No! Of course not. He's _married_."

"Right. I don't know, it sounded like..."

"Forget it," I tell him. "I don't know why I brought it up. It's just been a strange couple of weeks. I think I've been focusing on Edward because I don't want to focus on this exam."

"Believe me, I get it. I've been obsessed with this game... Never mind. I'm not going to embarrass myself talking about it."

We laugh, and he's cute when he's putting down his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"So, are you having fun in Seattle?" I ask.

"Yeah, more than I expected."

"Crazy how we both ended up here. I'm so glad we ran into each other at graduation. I would've had no idea..."

"We would've figured it out. Facebook. I 'check in' every time I go out," he says. I giggle because it's true, he does.

"But not so much lately."

He sighs and shakes his head. "Not until after that last weekend in July. Maybe once it's over we can do something fun. I was looking into places to visit in Washington. There's some interesting stuff around you."

I smile. "I guess, if you're into nature and stuff. It's not really my thing."

And I change the subject. "Where are you going on your bar trip?"

"I'm not really doing anything special. My brothers want to go canyoneering."

"Oh, that stuff you showed me videos of?" I ask, and I'm totally making a face.

"Don't look horrified. It's actually fun."

"Well, be careful."

"Always am. What about you?" Liam asks.

"You know Maggie Weiss and Liz? We're going to Spain and then I'm meeting a few friends in Montreal. I know, random places, but we thought Spain would be fun, and then there's a bachelorette party in Montreal. It should be fun."

"Sounds fun. I've been to Barcelona. Great city."

"Yeah, I've always wanted to go. We might do Portugal, too. Maggie really wants to."

"I thought Maggie was married," Liam says.

"Oh, yeah, no. They got a divorce."

"Wow."

"Yeah, that didn't last long. She wants a nice Jewish boy now. Someone she'll make babies with, or something. I feel bad for her ex, he's a great guy."

"No one really takes marriage seriously these days," he says. "I look at my parents, and I want that, you know? But just because I want something doesn't mean I can make it work. But I know I'd work hard for it. Everywhere I look I see people who are just giving up."

"Yeah, see, my parents were _so _in love, until my dad got bored. I grew up listening to them shouting awful things back and forth, or just saying _nothing._"

"That sucks."

I shrug. "I can't decide if... I don't know whether or not it makes me want to find someone and prove to them and to the world that I can do it, that it's possible... or if I just don't believe in it at all. Marriage, that whole forever kind of love. Eventually, someone gets bored. No one is special or unique enough to keep another person interested, to sustain that kind of... I don't know. I mean, I'm not delusional enough to believe _I _am. Sure, we all fall in love, but why would anyone want to just stay with one person?"

"Wait," Liam interrupts me. Because I had a lot more to say. Half a bottle of beer has loosened my tongue. "You don't think you're special or unique enough for someone to want to be with you?"

"I didn't say that..."

"Uh, I think you did. And that's just crazy."

"Are you gonna tell me I'm cute and smart and _so_ interesting?"

"Maybe."

"But for how long?"

"I don't know, and I won't know unless you let me figure that out," he says.

"It's not worth it. Everything hurts."

Liam laughs. "You're so dramatic."

"I am. It's just..."

"No, I get it. Your parents, the story you just told me about your neighbor."

"He wasn't always my neighbor," I tell him. "I didn't tell you everything, anyway."

He leans in closer. "So tell me."

I consider this. Another shoulder to "cry" on, another person to tell. Someone else who will _know_. I think maybe I just want someone else to know, like having more people know about it will make it more real. Because even back then, I'd wonder sometimes if it was all real. Those moments when all of a sudden everyone around us was gone and we were all alone, and he'd reach out and touch my face, or sometimes just push me against a wall and kiss my throat and neck, like he was sucking the life out of me. And he was.

"Back in high school, after he started dating Rose—his wife—he... Well, we had some sort of weird 'affair' behind her back. We'd kiss, then it was more than that, then..."

I blush, and talk really fast. "We lost our virginities to each other. And she had no idea. It was... ugh."

"Why didn't he just break up with her and date you?"

"I don't know."

"He sounds like a jerk."

I frown. "He wasn't, though. I can't explain it... It was just this... it felt so good when it happened, but the second it was over, I think a little bit of my soul just died each time. And then..."

I look into Liam's eyes and hope he can see... something. I don't know what. I just want him to listen.

"Then we had this fight. I had told our friend about us. I couldn't keep it inside anymore. She was so mad. She found him in the parking lot at school the next morning, thank God Rose wasn't there, and, like, she waited until there was no one around. Anyway, she yelled at him, told him he was disgusting, and how dare he, and that he couldn't touch me ever again. And Edward was so mad. He confronted me in class, and told me I'd betrayed his trust, and how could I tell Tanya? What if Rose found out? What was wrong with me? We stopped talking. That was it."

"Until a couple of weeks ago? Or..."

"Well, not really," I reply. "Right before I left that summer, I said goodbye. And the night my dad left, I called him. But he was busy. There was some party, and he _had _ to go. He said he'd come over in the morning, or I could join them. He was my _best_ friend. My best friend. I told him Dad left, and... anyway, so I told him no thank you, and to fuck off and never talk to me again. He didn't. He was perfectly fine with that, I mean, that's what he had told me after the Tanya drama."

"This guy... he sounds like a douchebag, Bella."

"He's not. He's the sweetest guy. He was... I think we were growing up, and we grew apart, and then, I don't know. I hated him for so long. I don't hate him anymore. You know, it's weird. I used to go weeks without thinking about him. Not even once."

"But you went back to where everything happened..."

"Yes!" I cry. "Yes, exactly!"

"I get it. But you know what? You'll be leaving again. Soon."

"I know, I know."

"I wouldn't worry too much about him," Liam says. "He's got his wife. Maybe he's just trying to make it work, or maybe he's actually happy—"

"Yeah. Yes. I hope he is. I don't know... Let's talk about something else."

He smiles and asks me if I want to go back. To his place. Well, where else? I'm staying with him. It's not like that. Unless I want it to be. But only if he tries a little harder, or if I have a few more beers. Both of these are unlikely. I think he got the message. Loud and clear. I'm not interested in single men living in Seattle who don't have beards or nagging, bitter wives.

Oh. I went there.

Just in my head, but I went there.

"Yeah, let's go chill at your place."

And because I don't want to kill all possibility of anything happening, ever, I let my hand linger on his arm for just a few extra seconds, and I giggle when he says things that aren't really worthy of giggles, and when we're in the cab, I'm sitting closer to him than I am to the door. And then when we're drinking more beer on his couch I tell him his glasses are so cool. He asks, "Yeah?" And I say, "Yeah," and smile a special smile just for him. This is the best way to forget. Flirting, giggling, touching. I used it before, so many times after Edward left, or dropped me off, or spent entire weekends with her. And then I'd let him know, drop a hint, or a few (oops). He never cared. He never will.

Liam forgets everything, or it doesn't matter, because even if I want another guy, I'm right here, and he knows I need distractions and fun and that stupid exam is stressing us out so much. So he kisses me, and I'm breathless and giddy and squirming and moving under him, but all he does is kiss me, which makes me like him more. Or it just makes me like him. I'm not sure I liked him before this. He's super hard, but he stops. He apologizes. I apologize. Let's pretend we're sorry things got out of hand. It's cute.

"I'm tired," I tell him.

"Yeah, of course. I bet. You can have my bed. I don't want you sleeping out here."

"I can't do that, but thank you."

"Are you sure? It's no problem at all," he insists. "This is a great couch, I fall asleep on it all the time."

"Then I'm sure I'll love it."

I get distracted while we're saying goodnight. I have some texts, and of course one of them is from him.

_hope ur having fun. this place sucks without you._

I write back and send it before I can change my mind.

_so you've been living in a sucky place for YEARS. sucks to be you._

And then I send a colon and P.

_it does. come back. _

Another colon and P.

_am i interrupting anything? _

I respond and tell him he isn't.

_just wanted to say goodnight_

I tell him "goodnight".

_miss you_, he tells me.

I wait a few seconds. I think. Then I stop thinking.

_where's your wife?_

I expect nothing back. That was me telling him to stop texting, to let this go. To leave me alone.

_here. sleeping._

_Stop texting me, _I tell him. And then, _She'll probably get upset if she finds out we've been spending so much time together._

I wait a long time for a text back. I get two.

_sure_

_sorry_

XxXxX

I heard Rosalie's voice this morning. Downstairs. She came over to have coffee with Mom. And she's younger than me, and I'm a grown woman, not a kid anymore, but I stood frozen in my room, and I couldn't walk down the stairs and face her. I hate my mother for this friendship she's started with her. She knew, then. Does she think it's better now?

I texted Edward.

_Rosalie's here. Are you going to grace us with your presence too?_

_no. i'm working on something. where are you? i don't see you in the kitchen._

I walked over to the window.

_Look up._

He did. I waved.

_ur not joining them? _

_No._

_i should try climbing the tree and sneaking in_

_Hah! Good luck with that._

We were both laughing. He dropped the saw that he'd been holding. It made me laugh harder. He bent over to pick it up, and when he looked in my direction again, I gave him a thumbs up and texted "hot".

I couldn't see the blush. His pink ears. Too far away.

_gotta go. call you when i'm done._

And then I did the weirdest thing. I brought two fingers to my lips, and then pressed them to the window. He just stood there, staring. He looked tired as he walked away. Just the way his shoulders slumped. That's what I do to him, I thought. He should be walking taller. Any other guy would.

So I called Liam. We talked for hours.

XxXxX

"So, you're dating this guy?" Edward asks.

"No." I'm too busy thinking about this morning.

"See, you're never_ dating_ anyone, but you might as well be."

"What does that mean?"

"Like that guy, Irina Denali's friend," he says. "The pedophile. You never 'dated' him, but you guys were always together."

I roll my eyes at "pedophile".

"I don't really date."

"But why not?"

"I don't know. I don't want to."

"Holding out for something awesome?" He grins. Asshole.

"Not everyone wants to be in a relationship. I don't really date, but I have lots of sex, Edward." Not completely true. "Like, lots." Not really. At least not lately. It comes and goes. And, just like with everything else, when it rains, it pours. But most of the time... blah.

"With guys you're not dating?"

"Are you judging me?"

"No, no," he hurries to say.

"What does that mean, anyway? 'Dating'."

"I'm talking about being in a relationship."

"I have. I've probably been in more relationships than you."

"Yeah, I guess I have less experience, or more, depending on how you look at it. Just you. And then Rose."

"Me?" I laugh. "We were in a _relationship_?"

"I bet you've said that before. Breaking hearts all over Chicago, New York, now Seattle, too."

"Never in Forks, though."

The look he gives me makes me wonder if I've been wrong all along. But it's so easy to dismiss that thought. I'm not falling for the sweet, sad face, the face of a broken and tormented boy. He's neither. Manipulative son of a...

"I think that's Mom's car," he says, jumping up and looking out into the street through the bushes. "Come on, let's go surprise her."

I let him take my hand, and I follow him. Then, because it's there and I can, I scratch his palm with my thumb.

"Never in Forks, huh?" He voice is funny, and he shakes his head, laughs, and drags me down the driveway.

XxXxX

I loved the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Met. Esme and Carlisle decided to give us some freedom that morning, and told us we could explore it on our own. Esme told me, "Don't let go of his hand. I don't want him getting lost." So I held on tight, and he held on tighter, and then when our hands got tired we loosely linked fingers, or he just held onto one of mine, and we walked around looking at priceless artwork, but I didn't care about any of it.

We were supposed to meet them by the entrance at four, but inside. At the foot of this long, beautiful staircase we had walked up earlier. We were a little early, and Edward was tired, whining just a little bit, wanting to go back to the hotel. Saying maybe we could watch a movie in the room Esme and I were sharing. I was a little annoyed, because it was such a perfect day, and he needed to see how perfect it was.

So I told him that. Minus the "perfect day" part.

"Oh, I'm annoying?" he asked. But he was laughing. I nodded, blushing a little, because he was teasing me with the tone of his voice and his eyes. Always his eyes.

"Sometimes. Like today."

And he grabbed my face with his hands, and he kissed me. And then he wrapped his arms around me, and kept kissing me. Everyone could see. Right there by those stairs. And then he picked me up, and just for a few seconds I was in his arms, and my legs were holding him so tight, and so were my arms, and I kept giggling, and that was the first happy kiss.

Those happy kisses. They're the hardest ones to think about, to look back to.

Esme appeared just seconds after my feet found the floor again. I was sure then that she hadn't seen a thing, because she acted like everything was normal. But over the next couple of weeks I would wonder if I was wrong, and sometimes I still do.

**My apologies for the delay. I went away last week and forgot to send my beta the chapter before I left. Let me know if you have any questions, or if I forgot to send you a review reply with the high school stuff. There's always more of that, if you're interested.**

**Thanks so, so much for reading. **


	9. Chapter 9

**My sweet beta and prereader have no idea I'm posting this. I got bored, and wrote, and I get impatient and whine a lot, so… I apologize for the typos, poor punctuation and grammar, and everything else that's wrong with this chapter.**

**Thank you, apetite. **

**I don't own Twilight**

"I've thought about leaving," he says. "But I can't do that. I just don't have a reason for it, you know? She hasn't done anything wrong."

I take out my phone and check the time.

He takes out some bills from his wallet and places them on the table. "Guess it's getting late. You should get going. It's a long drive."

"Yeah."

And still, I don't want to leave. And I don't want him to want me to leave. But things have always been simple for him. It's late, so you say your goodbyes and you leave. Easy.

There's an awkward hug and I walk out. I turn around once to wave, but he's not looking. I'm embarrassed, although no one is around to see. My face is warm and my throat feels full and my heart is over it. Over him.

Maybe it's my fault. I make no effort to be a part of his life. His current life. The one he lives with a woman so much younger than my mother—but thankfully over thirty-five. No kids. He wouldn't. Or maybe he couldn't. I like to think I was enough, one family was enough, but who knows?

Another thing that I like to think is that she wasn't around then, that he wasn't lying when he said he was going fishing with Billy, that he left because he wanted different things, and not because he had already sampled them and decided they were better, prettier, younger, or more exciting. But I don't know, and I won't ask. I asked too much back then, threw myself between them, never learning to mind my own business. But weren't they my business?

I was always interfering. Like that one morning, when I asked him where he was going, as if I couldn't tell from the things he was taking with him. Fishing, he said. Did Mom know? A grunt, a shrug. Then he was gone. I wanted to stay in the living room and watch cartoons before Edward came over, but I had to avoid Mom in case she decided to come down. She would have asked me if I'd seen him. And if I had told her that he'd gone off with Billy again on the one day he had off, I would have been forced to listen to ugly words.

Why didn't she understand that he was my dad, that I had to love him, and that the love I had for him made me ache? It made me feel so pathetic; it embarrassed me. I wasn't a little girl anymore, but all I wanted was more time with him, more smiles, more words from the one man who was supposed to love me unconditionally. I would have done anything. Anything for him to notice me, remember me, talk to me. Didn't she get that? Didn't she realize that she wasn't the only one he left behind? It was so easy for me to resent her, to hate her words and the looks she threw his way. It wasn't just about _her_.

She didn't understand back then, but she does now. So I don't tell her that he made me feel uninteresting and stupid again. She'd just hug me and say sweet things that would make me feel even more pathetic. So I tell her it was fine, he's _okay_, but he doesn't seem happy. This makes her feel better. It's nice to hear. I can't disagree. Maybe one day I'll be the bigger person, with the bigger heart, and his happiness will bring me joy, but he helped deflate that heart years ago, so I don't see things changing anytime soon.

XxXxX

The other man who helped ruin my life—I'm feeling pretty dramatic right now—has nothing to say about my father. Edward hasn't seen Dad since he moved to Port Angeles. Esme and Carlisle took Mom's side and stopped talking to him, even though Mom swears she never asked people to pick sides. I've always wondered if maybe Dad didn't come back often because he was too ashamed or embarrassed to show his face around town. Or maybe he had always hated Forks. Maybe he'd always been miserable here.

Edward is all awkward and quiet and nervous when I talk about Dad. I think he knows how he crushed me when he wasn't there for me that night, and he has no idea how to apologize.

Or maybe there's something else, something much more simple, or maybe I'm just imagining things, and I'm the nervous, quiet, awkward one.

"Remember how I couldn't fall asleep and you'd stay up with me, talking to me on the phone? I still have trouble sleeping sometimes. I can't get their voices out of my head. It's Mom, talking fast, and loud, and complaining, and being mean…"

"Your mom was never mean," he tells me.

"She was."

Edward shakes his head, frowning. "She was telling the truth. Maybe to you that came off as mean, but I think she was pouring her heart out."

"She was _complaining_."

"Yeah, but only because your dad was a dick."

"But he wasn't… Not then."

"Bella, you're contradicting yourself," he says. "You were just telling me about how cold he was."

"That was…after."

"A nice guy doesn't leave his wife and daughter, especially his _daughter_, without an explanation or a goodbye."

"_You're_ talking about nice guys!"

He's puzzled, confused. He has no idea.

"Nice guys don't cheat on their girlfriends for months with their 'best friend' and then stop talking to her and ignore her after using her for sex."

"Oh, is that what happened?"

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah."

I'm old enough not to get emotional. I'm not about to cry. Not even close. But my hand shakes a little when he reaches out and puts his hand over it.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing. I've obviously forgiven you."

"I was a kid."

"I know."

I lift my hand off the table and link my fingers with his. This makes him smile. We sit like that for a few minutes. He's thinking hard, and I'm nervous, waiting for something to happen, for someone to show up. Mom. Or Rosalie. Different, crazy scenarios run through my mind. They're all pretty ridiculous. Straight out of an episode of _General Hospital. _There's some dramatic music in the background. He pulls me back to reality by squeezing my fingers.

"I was so in love with you," he tells me. And it makes me laugh out loud.

"What?" he asks. "I'm serious."

I laugh again. I shake my head back and forth, so fast.

"Please, stop," I tell him. "You're such an idiot."

And I wait for him to join me, but he never laughs. He lets go of my fingers and leans back in his chair. I start telling him a story about a kid I knew who fell off his chair in class, and I act it out, because Edward likes that. He smiles a little, then tells his own stories, and I keep thinking about what he said, and wishing it were true.

XxXxX

"So this boyfriend of yours, is he gonna visit anytime soon?" Edward asks.

I stretch my arms and try to get comfortable in the lawn chair he put out for me. It's beautiful out, sunny, so I've been trying to listen to lectures outside, but he keeps talking.

"No. And he's not my boyfriend."

"You just giggle like that every time a guy texts?"

"He's funny. I giggle."

"First time I saw you giggle like that, it was for that pervert who followed you around senior year."

"Uh, giggle like _what_?" I ask.

"Next time you do it, I'll point it out."

"I think it's all in your head."

"Maybe."

I hate how he talks about that year like it's no big deal.

"Listen, I have to finish listening to this lecture."

"Sorry," he says. "I'm gonna go clean up the garage."

Sure. Garages need cleaning three times a day.

"You do that."

He's back ten minutes later, walking back and forth like he's doing something. I hit pause and remove my headphones.

"Aren't you hot?"

He shrugs. "I guess."

"You're all sweaty. Ew, pit stains. And your back… gross."

He starts lifting off his shirt, but I shriek.

"No! Not the shirt! You're too hairy for that. And all sweaty, gross body hair. Please keep it on."

"Really, Bella? Do I complain when you take off your shirt?"

"I'm not hairy. And you used to be… you just had that trail, down there." I point at the area below his belly button.

He laughs.

"And some chest hairs," I continue. "Enough to convince me that you were a man, but… nothing like _that._"

"You've changed too," he says.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. Your chest. I mean, I'd never realized how _late_ people can_… bloom_."

"Yeah, God was kind. Wanna see?"

His face. Priceless. His jaw. Dropped.

"Serious?"

"Of course not!"

He takes off his t-shirt and throws it at me. I look up, excited to feel that thing I used to feel when I saw him shirtless. You know, when you're young, and you see a boy's boxers peeking out of their jeans, and it drives you a little crazy, and you're not sure why. Because your body might not know it's ready, but it so is, but for what? And when? And I felt that way so many times before I realized I liked Edward like that. Before I realized that I wanted to touch him and maybe sneak my hand into those boxers, and play, and feel, and listen to his breaths, and quietly gasp when I heard how differently he said my name. The same name. But different.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You."

"What about me?" he asks.

"How you used to make me feel."

"How did I used to make you feel?"

"Stupid."

He grins.

"And that grin… you used to make me swoon."

"Swoon?"

He laughs. A lot.

"You _used_ to," I repeat.

"Not anymore?"

"Have you been trying?"

"I shouldn't have to try. My mere presence should drive women crazy."

"Oh, we go crazy."

"Is this you flirting?" he asks. "I can never tell."

"Why would I be flirting with you?"

He sits next to me, confident and beautiful and comfortable. _That's _why you should be flirting with him, Bella. Because he's here, and looks like that, and because you can. He's telling me this. His arms are. His mouth is. And the sweaty chest and the hairs I pretended to hate? They're begging me to flirt.

"Because you remember," he says.

"Remember?"

"Stuff."

"Stuff," I repeat.

"And because… I've been trying to—"

"Trying what?"

"Nothing."

"Trying _what_?"

I'm lying on my side, and it's so hot. I lick my lips. I'm thirsty, and I could reach for my water bottle, but I'm not going to break up this_ thing_ that's happening here, so I look into his eyes, and they're so intense, and I'm so stubborn about not letting go that I don't see his hand approaching my face.

So, his hand, it's on my face, and his thumb moves down my cheek, and it's on my lips. I catch it between my teeth.

I keep it there. Taste it. Avoid his eyes. His face. And then when I'm done, I finally look at him.

"This is me teasing you."

I giggle. He's not laughing. Or smiling. And I think maybe I've gone too far, but five minutes later I'm screaming because he's just dumped the contents of my water bottle all over my chest. I open my eyes and he's beaming. Extremely proud of himself, laughing and staring at me, and I pretend to be annoyed, grabbing his arms and pushing him away, play-fighting, but he knows by the way my chest is touching his that I loved it.

XxXxX

He always had the strangest requests.

For instance, the first time he got me to go down on him, he said the weirdest thing I'd ever heard.

"Could you… kiss it?"

At first I was confused, then appalled. Offended.

"Why?"

"I just thought… please? Could you?"

"No."

And I didn't. But I put it in my mouth anyway. And he was happy.

We only tried a couple of times. We mostly just kissed. Or he played with my breasts. He was obsessed. He'd touch and hold and kiss and squeeze and lick and poke. Yes, poke. It was so weird, but his hands were always on them, and they did strange things, and some felt good, and others felt like nothing, and sometimes it just hurt.

I don't know why I let him. I just did.

And I don't know why I'm letting him now. I just am.

XxXxX

Not that anything is happening between us.

After I went inside to put on a t-shirt, he told me he had to get ready for dinner. I knew he was going to Rosalie's mother's house. I told him to have fun.

"Drag your wife back here where she belongs."

"She's not talking to me right now."

"Why not?" The sun was in my eyes, so I was squinting. He took off his sunglasses and tried to put them on me, but they half-sat there on my nose, crooked.

"The usual. I told her we couldn't afford to take a trip she was planning. She's mad at me."

"Where does she wanna go?"

"Disney."

"Lame."

He nodded. "Yeah. And she wanted us to go with her friend, her friend's husband, and their kids."

"Really lame."

"Tell me about it…"

I took off the sunglasses, folded them, and pushed them against his chest. "Be nice to her. Just take her."

He placed his hand over mine, took the glasses, and let go.

"This is none of your business, Swan."

"I'm your friend…"

"Then start acting like it."

I had cruel things to say, but he started laughing. _He was kidding_, I thought.

"It's not important, Bella. I tell her 'no' ten times a year. She'll get over it."

"Oh."

"Just another dumb fight," he said.

"You don't get sick of them?"

"What am I supposed to do? Leave her because she wants to go to Disney?"

"No—make her happy."

"She's fine."

"That's not _happy_," I pointed out.

"'Fine' is grown-up happy."

"No—"

"I need to take a shower before I leave."

"Okay."

"Cheer up," he told me. "Don't do that."

"What? Shrug?"

"Yeah."

"You sound so much like my dad."

"Okay. Shrug and sulk and frown all you want."

But that's not what I had meant. I'd meant he sounded like a shitty husband. And that should have made me happy, right? But it didn't. Every part of me disliked him as I watched him walk toward his house.

I told Mom, and just like me, she shrugged.

"Thank God Rosalie is stronger and smarter than I was. She won't put up with that. That poor girl."

"You know, I really _hate _that you two are friends."

"You never gave her a chance," Mom said.

"And I probably never will. I'll be out of here soon."

"You will. And Rose will be right next door."

"Thanks. I appreciate it. The guilt. Awesome."

So here I am now, on my bed, flashcards scattered all around me, looking out the window and thinking about Mom and how she thinks I abandoned her. Dad, and how he actually _did _abandon her. Edward, who should abandon Rosalie and come with me. But what would I do with him? And do I like _him_, or the boy I used to kiss and share this old pillow with?

I'm thinking stupid thoughts, and it's time to remind myself that the past is the past. He's just a friend. A man. He flirts. I flirt back. But mostly, I start the flirting. Dad has a new wife. Mom is lonely and befriends other lonely people. I can't keep thinking about how lonely she is. It will kill me. Edward is back from dinner. Alone. And this pisses me off. I pull on a t-shirt and run downstairs, and then outside. He's on the lawn chair now, and I join him. It's dark. His skin is still hot from today's sun. I ask a thousand questions about dinner, and then I tell him the chair is going to break under our weight. He doesn't care. He lights a cigarette. I don't care. I touch his face and tell him to shave. He says soon. I say okay, I actually don't mind, and I'm not lying. I like how it feels against my cheek.

"I should go."

Lips meet skin. A hand squeezes a thigh. I'm not sure how I walk away.

**I like thanking you guys by sending out high school stories in review replies. Say 'hi' and tell me never to post again without a beta/prereader. **

**Thanks so much for reading and being sweet or not too sweet, but always awesome.**

**mwah **


	10. Chapter 10

**Entirely unedited (again). My apologies. My beta and prereader are super busy doing wonderful things, and I'm incredibly impatient.**

**:)**

**I don't own Twilight**

Sometimes it feels like I'm involved in another affair. Her name makes me frown, conversations that remind me of their life together make me wince—because it's so easy to forget that they "are". So words from him or my mother wake me up, and I become moody, and sometimes I feel sick, and I have to tell myself that it's not like before, it's not like others. It's a temporary make-believe and I don't care.

Sometimes I _really _don't care. I'm his friend, and he is mine, and it's normal and nice, and mild flirtations are just mild flirtations—like when you flirt with a coworker who has an unnamed, faceless spouse, or with the man who sells you your daily lottery ticket. And when I'm feeling like that, he can say "Rosalie" or "my wife" ten thousand times, and I don't care.

I know today is one of those days... I'm smiling a lot, I got most of my practice questions right, and he has trimmed the beard. This makes it less soft, I'm sure, but I can't confirm anything—the lights are on and the morning is watching us, and during these hours we just speak, and smile, and play with words and looks, and the occasional accidental touch happens, but it's accidental—I promise. Can he make that same promise? I'm not too sure.

"Has your mom been on any dates?" he asks me. Mom's laughing at something Rosalie's gardener said.

(And why is there a gardener? Edward won't say. He simply rolls his eyes when I ask. All I've gotten out of him has been: "Because she thinks she can afford it.")

"I don't think so," I reply. "I mean, I want to say 'yes' because of how long it's been, but she hasn't said anything to me, and you're right here, so you'd know if..."

"Nope." He shakes his head.

"Wow."

"Doesn't she miss...?"

"Ew, stop."

"Well, it's a valid question."

"Don't you?" I ask.

"Desperately."

We laugh. I laugh more.

"I'm kidding," he finally says. "I mean, not really, but it hasn't actually been _that _long."

But long enough. I ask at regular intervals because I want to know. I need to know. Husband and wife. How often? When? Where? How? Who initiates? Are there whispers? Cuddles? Is she as confident and beautiful as she was that night? Does he still watch her like she's everything? Light and love and perfect beauty and the answer to his prayers and the star of his dreams.

"Remember Alice Brandon's party senior year? You and Rosalie were having sex in your car."

He thinks. He remembers. Or tries to remember. "Vaguely? Which one? Which party?"

"Sometime in the winter, right before we stopped talking."

"Oh. Yeah."

I'm feeling brave.

"That was kind of the last straw for me. You lost your virginity to me… _with _me, you were hooking up with me, and at some point you had started sleeping with her."

"And you were dating Tyler."

"No I wasn't."

He shakes his head, but stops. "No, you weren't."

"Not until after..."

He cuts me off.

"If it makes you feel better, our first time was in a car, parked outside Alice's house, so it could have been that night."

"_Bull_shit."

"Ask Rose," he tells me. I want to throw something at his face, but there's nothing heavy or scorching hot around.

"You'd remember... She was your first _girlfriend_. You _married _her. You know exactly when you first had sex with her."

"It _was_in a car."

"Not that night."

"No, probably a few days before... We..." His hands are moving between us, he's talking about us. "We didn't hook up after that. I knew I had to tell you, and I couldn't, so..."

"So you stopped coming over..."

He nods and stands up, looking for something to do. Or an excuse to leave.

"You remember everything," I whisper.

He reaches out and places his hand on my head. He sort of cradles it, and his thumb is sweet and lovely moving against my forehead. Gentle rubbing, barely caressing. I tug at his other hand, and bring him down to me. He rests his head against my chest and I just keep him there. I want to kiss him. Not his lips or the delicious parts that made me dizzy years ago. Just the top of his head, his forehead. Taste his hair and skin and tell him it's okay. It's all okay. It's over and in the past. But I'm not a liar. And I feel all of it. Every little bit of pain that has accumulated. I feel it everywhere, on the surface, and deep, deep in that place I have no name for. Maybe it's my soul. My essence. Everything I am. He's hurt all of it. Every part of me. And it's difficult to breathe. I thought when you grow up, it gets easier. Less tears, no more struggles to take the next breath, to stay calm. I now know that that's not true.

I let him stay like that, sort of squatting on the floor beside me, his head on my chest, his breath on my skin because I had unbuttoned quite a few buttons on this shirt, and my skin is there, and his mouth is close. He does nothing. Says nothing. Eventually his hands begin to move, but they're innocent, and maybe I need not-so-innocent, because that would lessen this thing in my chest. This thing that I don't like to describe, because its existence angers me. I'm stronger than this. Better. I'm a happy person. Away from him, I'm someone else.

His hand finds my braid. He takes it and kisses the ends of my hair, and I wonder why he can't just say "sorry". Why he can't say anything.

"This is pretty," he tells me.

I sigh, frustrated.

He tugs, pulls. "I want to untie it."

"Do whatever you want."

"You're mad at me."

I say nothing.

I let him play with my hair until it's time for him to go. Right before he leaves he stands behind me and squeezes my shoulders. I shrug out of his grasp. A late night text from him tells me we need to talk. I ignore it. The morning brings him back to me, but he's not alone.

XxXxX

Rosalie Cullen belongs to that class of people who take compliments well. There's no blushing or pretending. No false modesty. All you get is that smile. Almost measured, perfect. So right that the person complimenting her wants to say it again. Maybe compliment that smile. Or offer new words of praise, depending on what the first ones were about.

And that's exactly what Mom is doing. Rosalie did something new to her hair. She has a subtle tan. Good for her. I'm almost jealous—almost—until Rosalie says those words you hear pathetic wives offer all the time, with their husbands standing right there. Nothing original in them. She could at least try harder.

"Edward didn't even notice, Renee."

She's taken me from jealousy to pity so fast. Whatever illusion her composure, looks, and that smile had created is shattered now, and my cheeks feel warm when I remember how he played with my braid. Noticed it. Talked about it. Ran the end along his lips.

He's looking at me. I smile. I can't do it like her—my smiles are either entirely there, or they don't happen at all. I bring today's braid over my shoulder, and play with the end. His eyes make my heart skip a beat, and then immediately after that, it's beating too fast.

"Mom sent over the rolls you liked, and I have that chicken recipe..."

Thank yous and rolls going around. I decline, politely. Rosalie takes my usual seat, in front of my books, and the conversation is endless and boring. I look at her husband, who is now sitting to her right, and I know it's not the time to bring up our talk. I'm not entirely sure there's going to be one anymore.

"I'm going upstairs," I announce. "To study. It was nice seeing you again."

She waves. I resist the urge to tell him to come up and help. Mostly because I know there's a very, very big chance that he'll say "no".

Just a few steps, and he speaks.

"Need some help?"

Don't turn around. Don't grin. Or turn around, but don't look too pleased.

"No, I'm good. Maybe later."

Mom and Rosalie are ignoring us. Maybe there's nothing to ignore. It's all in my head. I'm building things up. He's just a nice guy. He's being polite.

I convince myself that that's the case, but only on the surface. There are a thousand layers to my thoughts and feelings and to us. With each one I'm faced with, I feel I'm getting closer to the truth, but it's too ugly to accept just yet.

XxXxX

We'd never done it standing up. I wanted to, because there's just something about corners, or random, bare walls that hold no significance. I wanted to assign memories to them, some importance, give them life. For instance, the short hallway leading to the dining room we never used. Mom had painted the walls a deep, dark green. I wanted to lean back, feel the cool wall on my shoulders, the back of my arms. I wanted him to see me standing against it. I imagined my hair all long and wild and dark. My lips redder than they ever got. My nose a little thinner, my eyes a little wider. My imagination did great things to my appearance. But he was always the same thin, tall boy. And if he didn't have those lips or cheekbones or lashes, I apologize for lying to you. But that's what I saw. And that's still what I see.

I'm not even sure that he wanted to do it that day. There had been no touches. He had been sulking. Carlisle had found out about his C in biology. I had to initiate. He was surprised. I brought my hands to his face and then my face to his face and my lips to his lips and I kissed him. We did that for a while on the couch. No one was home. He wasn't touching me, so I made him. I put his hands on me, and then when I remembered the hallway and the green wall, I stood up and pulled him up with me, and then we were there, and he didn't know why, so I showed him with hands and mouth and words that made me blush.

My jeans came off one leg, but not off the other. His hand rubbed me. I was wearing light pink. He was trying to take it off, but I told him I liked it when I kept it on and he touched like that, over it. His mouth dropped open and he continued, but then off it went, and a few seconds later he was inside, and I was being fucked against my mother's green wall. I would have never used that term back then, but now I can, and there's really no other way to describe it.

Orgasms didn't always happen. He'd have to work for them, and I'd have to concentrate to not concentrate, to stop thinking, and that was almost impossible. But I liked it, a little too much, and it didn't matter, because his skin and mouth and weight and the thrusts and movements stayed with me. So after he left, and once he was gone for good, I kept bringing them back and using them to feel, to continue loving him, to remember.

That day, I came. The way he was moving, the way I was holding on, first with my arms around him, then with my hands on his butt, pulling him in... The way he ended up holding me, his face in my neck and that breathing. That breathing. I was shaking so hard by the end, and as he was coming he kept pressing his mouth to my forehead and pushing my damp bangs off of it with his nose, and kissing again, and moving, moving, and knees shaking, and I thought he said something. But when you think you hear those words but you can't be sure, you never ask for confirmation. You just wait for them to be repeated, but then they're not, and you'll always wonder.

But I was a smart girl. I never believed in fairy tales or happy endings, and love stories were for losers. I let it go and pulled up my jeans. I let him stay all day, but we didn't really talk. Rosalie called and called but he ignored. I thought... maybe... this time... but I didn't say anything. I let him take pictures of me, but I kept them, and he never asked.

**Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, PM'ing. I have the best readers who take me from super nervous to very, very happy. And yeah, I'm pretty nervous.**

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**Have a wonderful weekend.**

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	11. Chapter 11

**Writeontime is my beta. She's wonderful. And so funny.**

**I don't own Twilight. **

And now, all of a sudden, she's here, and she never leaves.

She sits outside in a different bikini every day. She has so many. And this is Forks. It's cloudy and cool, and believe me, I've been trying to wear very little, and hang around in pretty dresses and very short shorts, but I always end up covering arms and legs. Sometimes I'm lucky, and I get to cover them with things he gives me, but I'd never ask, and he doesn't always offer, so I'm usually sitting there, a little uncomfortable, wishing it would get colder, because he would notice chattering teeth and shivers.

You know the best thing to warm you up in that weather? Hands and a body and warm breath.

But I guess she's not cold. She sits there. She reads a lot, on her Kindle. I bet she thinks it's so cool. It's the opposite of cool, Edward, I told him the other day. He looked at me like I was crazy, and then called me a brat, and I was reminded again of how things have changed. I say things like that to my friends and in that world I'm funny, and some might find me interesting. Even cool. I'm not sure what I am here.

So she sits, reading and reading, calling out for Edward to join her, and I've started counting how many times a day he says "In a minute!", "I'm busy, Rose", or "Huh?"

She wears big, big sunglasses on her head. It's not sunny enough for them to go on her face. Her nails are always "perfect" in a way I wouldn't ever want for myself. She probably thinks they're classy. Elegant french tips. Mine are all different colors, and I waste precious minutes drawing on them and then chewing it all off. She probably thinks they're hideous.

Somehow, she's thinner than me. Or maybe she's not. I don't know, but I bet Edward does. I think he notices these things, but I don't think he realizes that he does, but then he'll say something and surprise me. Anyway, she's thin, and I think her breasts are what make her look big when she's wearing clothes. She just looks very different lying there, half naked. But good.

She calls out his name again. He's washing her car. She gets up and walks over. She's got on these low wedge flip-flops. They look like they've got something sparkly on them. Husband and wife are talking, and I can't hear anything. He turns the hose on her, and she's shrieking and wet and laughing. He does it again. She starts running away, but she's only pretending, because no one's that slow. He swears he's done, but he's not. This time he gets her hair. She's upset now, but he thinks it's funny, and she laughs with him. She takes off her shoes and walks inside.

I go back to my essays. I don't have any time left. This is it. I need to focus, so her timing is actually perfect. It would kill me to be right next to him without being able to sit with him, stare at him. I really don't have much time—I'll be in Seattle soon. Then I'll be in Europe. Then I'll start my job. Maybe Thanksgiving? Maybe not? Maybe she'll be pregnant and he'll be happy and I'll meet boys and it won't matter. By next week, this can't matter.

XxXxX

The feeling that time is running out is something I'm familiar with. I had spent the months between our fight and the day I left for college waiting for something to happen. I can't describe what it felt like. I was anxious. Desperate. I dated Tyler for a minute and thought Edward would get jealous and _something would happen_, but it never did. He'd walk right by me, and nothing. I'd run into him at the store, and nothing. I even went to him once, and nothing.

I drove myself crazy. I sat facing my computer, waiting for him to come online. Maybe this time he'd say something. Maybe he'd apologize. Maybe he missed me so much he couldn't take it. I remember this one time, shortly after our fight, or maybe it was even before the fight, on one of those last confusing days when he was being weird and quiet... I opened the laptop that Dad had given me for my birthday and noticed how dirty the screen looked. Fingerprints all over it. And then I noticed one on the corner of the screen. Bigger than the rest. Just that one. And I knew it was his. And I missed him so much. For a long time I made sure it stayed like that. My dirty screen. Then I guess I forgot. I don't remember wiping it clean. I don't remember making a decision. Life went on. And it won't be any different this time around.

XxXxX

"I don't want to spend one of my last nights before the bar having dinner with your wife."

"Bella, _no_."

"No?"

"No," Mom repeats. "You can't tell him that. Where's your pride? You want him to know you're jealous of his wife? You want her to hear about it?"

"I'm not going to make up another stupid excuse. He knows why I don't want to be around her."

"He's never been that bright."

"_Ugh_."

"Bella..."

"And I'm not jealous. Of _what_? If I wanted her life, I'd have her life."

"Don't do anything stupid," she tells me. "Even when your father left, I took it with grace, with dignity. No one saw me crying. No one heard me shouting."

"Oh. Sure. Mom, let's not get into that."

We don't.

At the end, I can't lie, and dinner is going to happen, so I throw a loose shirt that belonged to an old boyfriend over my green bikini top, and some shorts, and up close I can confirm it: she's thinner than me. And the sparkly stuff I saw on her shoes are actually hearts. And now it's impossible to take her seriously. I hardly listen to her conversation with my mother. When she's serious, I'm trying hard not to roll my eyes. When she's funny, I don't laugh.

I get goose bumps when he whispers in my ear, reminding me of something he used to say when we were kids.

"You never laugh at jokes if you don't like the person telling them."

I finally laugh.

XxXxX

"Did you have fun? I'm glad you came."

I nod. I yawn. Too lazy for words.

"Wanna take a walk?"

I don't look at him when I shake my head and tell him I shouldn't. There's really no more time left to waste.

"Sure," he says. "Of course."

He follows me back to the house. He follows me into the kitchen. A small light is on, but no one's here. Mom stayed behind to help Rosalie with the dishes. They said something about coffee. I fall into my usual seat, exhausted. He sits across from me. His usual place. I look at my piles and piles of outlines and flashcards, and sigh.

"I guess I should head back. You need to focus."

"I'll see you before I go," I tell him. "Promise."

"Do you know when you'll be back?"

"Maybe Thanksgiving."

He didn't expect that. It hit him hard. His new (old) toy is (almost) gone.

"Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, I mean, I told you about Spain, and then Canada. Then once work starts, I'll be pretty busy. There's a chance I might visit my friends back in New York over Thanksgiving, but I think Mom might want to do something here."

"I thought you had a few weeks off after you got back," he says. "Before work."

"I do, but I'll be pretty busy."

"And weekends. You could always—"

"I'm going to be a first-year associate. Weekends... doubtful."

He bites his knuckles in the way he used to bite them when he was nervous, or wanted to hide part of his face in embarrassment, or shame. Then he starts biting his nails, or maybe just the skin around them. That's more Edward. I get up and walk over to him, and I sit on his lap. I straddle him.

"I'll miss you." I recognize the voice I'm using, but I know it's new to him. His eyes are big circles. What is he thinking? What does he expect?

"Maybe I can come down sometime." He laughs, like the idea is absurd.

"Whenever you want."

He smiles. "You have room for two?"

"Don't be cruel."

He starts a "W" word. _What_ or _why_, I'm guessing. I don't need that whole innocent act right now. I stop him.

"You know I'm in love with you," I explain, just in case he's really that stupid. My hand covers his lips. "I'm taking the bar in four days. Just sit here and don't talk. No talking. But stay."

He grabs my hand and pulls it away from his face. He just lunges at me, grabbing me, trying to kiss me. Like it's that part of the movie. Like it's time. I don't let him.

"_No_."

"Please."

And then, "Come on."

But he's already stopped trying. I lean in and kiss his nose.

"If I told you I'd sleep with you, would you?" I ask him.

"Over and over again."

You'd think this would be the moment when I'd throw myself at him, kiss him and drag him upstairs, get on my knees only to be pulled back up because he can't be distracted by anything that isn't him inside me. Instead I find myself smiling, and he probably doesn't know it's not real. That's the problem. When it comes to me, he doesn't get it. He knows the girl who wasn't in love with him, and once I let go of her, I lost him, too. Our bond—that sounds so_ stupid_—disintegrated.

"I wish I never liked you," I say.

"Why?"

I shrug. All the words sound so stupid in my head right now.

"_Because_..."

"When did you start liking me?" he asks, like he's fourteen.

"I don't know..." I squeak. "I guess around the time you started dating Rosalie."

"I liked you before then."

"When?"

He asks me if I really want to know._ Really?_ He asks again. _You sure?_ Yes. Come on. I'm sure.

"First time I saw you. I went home and begged Mom to call your mom and invite you over to play. Before you, there were play dates. I don't remember much about them, but I'm told they happened. I even asked her to make cupcakes with pink frosting, because you used pink crayons, and kept staring at some girl's pink construction paper like you were gonna cry because it wasn't yours."

"You had a crush?" I giggle, because it's cute. And because I remember finally putting the pink away in second grade because he liked green, and he_ loved_ blue.

"Sometimes. And then sometimes I forgot I liked you. I mean, you were always there. My best friend. Every day. But then you'd do something and I'd remember. You'd talk to boys, or you'd go to Phoenix, and I'd miss you."

"Go on. This is entertaining."

"And you'd crush my dreams, just like that," he says.

"This is weird."

"Yeah, very."

I play with his collar. "When did you stop liking me?"

"Really?"

"Yeah." I nod. "When you met Rose?"

"I love you now."

My mouth is dry. I'm dizzy. He must feel how my legs are shaking. My hands. But this is the boy who used his lashes and pout to get in my pants. He could charm anyone. Do anything.

"You just want to fuck me," I remind myself.

"And you should let me."

We laugh. The spell is broken.

"Go home before I _do_," I tell him.

And he listens. But he keeps looking back, and smiling, half-bashful, half-cocky, all these things that make no sense and don't go together. I giggle for him. He stops and I think he's walking back, and maybe he thinks he is, too, but I go to bed alone. All I can think of is how he felt against me earlier. And if I never come back, or if I avoid him forever, who cares if I have him for an hour? I'm not even talking about a night. Nights belong to actual lovers. So I fantasize about the day, one of so many random corners, enough noise to drown us out, someplace close by I can escape to.

And that's how I know it's not worth it. Too much time wasted on the _how_ and_ when_ and _who's around_. But I want some magic. And magic isn't a daytime thing. You need stars, and stars need the dark, and the dark needs people to give it meaning. And magic is _him_. I can deny it forever, but right now, it's so clear to me. I imagine his face so close, like before. His teeth and whiskers and the pink and the gold, and my chest is tight and he needs to be here.

One more magical night before I die. It should be at the top of everyone's lists. Because that would mean everything is perfect, just that one night. You're young, or feel young, and possibilities exist, and anything, everything can belong to you, be yours. I don't know if I'll ever get that again. The closest I ever got to that was on that cold morning in New York. And I don't know if he can give me magic twice. But if not him, who? And if not tonight, when?

XxXxX

"You're lying. You've had sex before. Everyone knows she's not a virgin."

"I_ swear_."

I shook my head. "No way."

"I've been with you this entire time, right?"

No, actually, he hadn't. But we never discussed it, and I didn't want to start.

"We've_ done_ stuff, but... She's your..."

"I always thought it would be you," he blurted out.

"Uh..."

"You kissed me like you liked me back there, at the museum. That was real, right?"

"Yeah..." I was blushing. Dying inside. I couldn't let go of that last shred of dignity. If he knew I was crazy about him, thought about him all day, said prayers and made bargains with God about him... "I like kissing you."

"Can I kiss you now? I swear, if you don't want to do it here, we can sit on the couch—"

"No, it's fine. Here's fine."

"You're so pretty."

I bit my tongue. I let him say it and then I let it go. But I knew he was just saying it because he was testing the waters, getting ready to convince me to have sex with him.

"Just... lie back."

I did. I let him kiss me and touch me. I took off my t-shirt, reminding myself that I'd done it before. And not just for him.

He got on top of me and kept grinding away, forgetting my neck and breasts and face.

"Let me see," I told him.

He didn't believe me at first.

"I'm serious. Just... take it out."

And he did, and I didn't tell him I thought it looked a little weird, but what did I know, anyway?

I touched it. I think he died. I let him grind again, and it was good. I felt wetness, pulled him off, saw some stains. Nothing major, but enough to make me take off my pajama bottoms.

He didn't touch me. There was absolutely no preparation. After some more kissing, I took off my underwear and opened my knees.

"Only if you want to."

He nodded. He was warm. I winced and gasped. It was done.

**I know. That took forever. I'm going to start updating once a week. Promise.**

**You guys are the best best best. Thank you for the encouragement, kind words, not-so-kind words, etc. They're all awesome. **

**I want you to tell me what you think she should do. I know what she's going to do, but that doesn't mean I don't want to hear from you. Hope you enjoyed what I sent you guys with the review replies last time. There's always more of that.**

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	12. Chapter 12

**I don't own Twilight, but I have the best beta and prereader ever. Thanks, guys. :)**

We decided we needed to get drunk. Very drunk. We hadn't done that in such a long time. _Months._ Probably graduation. Or maybe not even then. Or maybe we never really got drunk like that. Not since our first year, anyway. That's when everyone partied and tried to fit in and show everyone else that they were cool outside of the library and the student lounge—where you were supposed to be able to talk and just hang out with friends, but people were _reading_, so please be _considerate_.

Europe was fun. It was lots and lots of sun and wine and food and more food. It was a few handsome guys, but then their cute girlfriends or wives right behind them, or so tiny next to them that you didn't notice at first glance. We were tipsy almost every night, but there's something about being in America and getting wasted with your friends. It's a different kind of night, one we always say is going to happen, but never does. Not when it's me, Maggie, and Liz. We always pretend that we love to party, but we end up with some wine, and we talk and talk.

Tonight, I tell them all about Edward. I didn't bring him up when we were in Spain and Portugal. I refused to shut out the sun and return to those heavy, damp, blurry days. That makes no sense, but that's how I see the time I spent in Forks, and Maggie and Liz didn't deserve to relive those weeks with me. Not after taking that exam. Not while we were focused on sleeping and turning brown and maybe even seeing some sights if we found the time.

So I talk and talk and wrap it up before they're bored and yawning, or throwing polite but obvious glances at their watch and phone.

"You don't feel bad at all about leading him on?" Maggie asks me. Always direct. She wants answers.

"What are you talking about?"

"From what you're telling us, it sounds like you were being a tease."

"I don't think she was being a tease," Liz says. "Well, maybe just a little... Tell Maggie about that last night..."

"Wait, what? Liz knew about this?"

"Liz was on gchat all summer," I remind Maggie. "Unlike some people..."

"Yeah, well, _I _was studying for the _bar._"

"Well, you missed all of Bella's stories. She was all, 'omg, he's so cute today'. And I kept waiting for her to be, like, 'omg, hi, I fucked his brains out', but she was good."

"Thank God for that!" Maggie exclaims. "You don't need that drama in your life, Bel."

"No, but she _wants _that drama in her life."

I nod.

"Oh, I see." Maggie rolls her eyes at me. "You don't want to get over him."

I shake my head. Again and again and again.

"Here we go ag—"

"It's not like—"

"It is a little bit." Liz giggles.

"No. Come on. I had a _crush_ on Peter. And I continued to sleep with him because it was _fun_, and I know you guys think I was setting myself up for heartbreak, but—"

"You _knew_, Bella!"

"Yes, you knew!"

"—but it was fun. And I had the best, best sex with a guy who should only be dating supermodels, so..."

"And now you're willing to go through that again?" Maggie asks me. "And despite what you tell us, I would bet Liz's inheritance that Edward's not half as hot as Peter was."

"No, he's pretty cute," Liz says. "He's more my type than Peter ever was. He has this beard, like he's a dirty hipster, but he's totally _not_ one, so it's not annoying. It's just a beard. Nothing dirty or ironic about it. Just… manly."

"How come I don't get to see a picture?"

I find one on my phone. A recent one I love to open and stare at every chance I get. I show her, and she mumbles something about how lucky I am. And eyebrows.

"Still, he's not worth going through that again," she insists.

"Oh, you don't get it. I went through it already. All summer. Also, back when I was seventeen."

"Ugh, _Bella._.."

"Shut up, Maggie," Liz says. "Bel, tell her about your last night there. And all the good stuff, too."

"Yes! I want the good stuff!" Maggie cries. "There has to be something good you can tell us! All I've heard so far is _bad._"

She's right. I'm not sure anything about it was good, but I hug a knee to my chest and start speaking, ignoring Maggie's warnings and protests, trying not to return Liz's sad smiles with sadder ones of my own.

XxXxX

It was awkward, because he knew I loved him, and he claimed to love me, but he wasn't going to do anything about it, and I wasn't sure I wanted him to.

Mom decided she needed milk for her morning coffee and left us there in the kitchen. I told him I was packing. He could come upstairs, or leave and come back later to help me bring everything to the car. He ran up. He was in my room before me. By the time I got up there he was standing by the window, his hands in his hair.

"You're gonna do great, Bella," he told me a few minutes later, after watching me pack up my laptop and the big outline I had spent the week trying to memorize.

"Yeah."

Maybe I wasn't talking because I didn't want to cry. Everything felt like it weighed a ton and it was sitting on my chest and I didn't want to go, and if I thought about the next few days the anxiety made me sick. I avoided thinking about the man in my room by repeating statutes in my head. When that made me want to run to the bathroom I focused on his hands, on his mouth, on his movements as he went through my things.

"Holy... Is that our yearbook?"

I finished explaining the rule of perpetuities to myself in my head and looked over at the book he was holding. "Um, yeah? I guess?"

"You didn't take it with you when you left?" he asked me.

"No. Why would I?"

"I don't know..."

"Yeah, no thanks. I_ really _needed another reminder of our senior year…"

He said nothing. Just went through the brand new pages. I don't think I'd ever bothered to open it.

"You were adorable."

"Was I?"

"Your hair was so long."

"Hmm..."

"It would be all over me, surrounding me. In my face. I used to love that."

I threw a pair of socks at him. He threw them back at me.

"What? I can't talk now?" he asked, smiling and pretty. A little pink.

"Talk..."

"No more socks."

"No more socks," I agreed. "Continue."

"You never leave it down anymore. It's always up, or in a braid, or..."

"Well, I used to be shy, remember? That was me hiding."

"From me?"

I shrugged. "Especially from you."

"Can I keep this?"

"You don't have your own copy?"

"Probably at home... In my old room."

"Sure, whatever."

"Or just this picture," he said. But I told him not to tear it out. He could take the yearbook.

I let him talk, but I stopped packing, and started looking for another picture. Or a set of pictures. By the time I found them, he was lying on my bed, going through our yearbook for a second time.

"Here," I finally said. "Pictures."

I lay down next to him and watched his face as he took them from me.

"I took these."

"You did."

"I forgot about them."

"Yeah. So flattering."

"Stop," he said. "Probably a good thing that I forgot about them."

Sometimes he has no idea how bad his words are. How painful and stupid and the opposite of what I want to hear. No one could ever write books about this man. Or poems. Or gush over how amazing he is, how he says and does these _things_…

"I'm keeping them."

"Out of Rosalie's sight, I hope."

"You were _a baby,_" he said, ignoring me. "A kid."

"We had just had sex. Downstairs."

"I remember."

Fingerprints all over my picture. His fingers were on my seventeen-year-old body, up and down my legs, all over my hair. It was so hot in my room. He didn't even try to hide it. He was touching me all over again.

"I wish I could just take these off," he told me. And it made me warm and it made me blush. "I want to see what's under them again. Why can't pictures work that way?"

"I'm right here."

"Bella..."

I snatched the picture from his hand, and when his fingers tried to fight me for it, I just held them, and then our hands were resting on his stomach, and then mine went down, down, and he wanted me so much. And I wanted to see it again. I wanted to do things that wouldn't have crossed my mind at seventeen. I kept my hand on it, moving it to make him pant, just a little, and he did.

And then my mouth found his ear. My teeth were soft, but my intentions were ugly. My tongue made him tremble. I could've done anything, everything. But it was so depressing. All of it.

"Don't be married," I told him.

And a few minutes later, after my hand was gone, after he touched his ear and stared at me like I was a dream, and none of it was real:

"I don't want to be married."

"Good."

"_No_. You make me not want to be married. And that makes me feel like shit."

"Edward, don't be so dramatic."

He ignored me. I half-listened, politely. He was ranting about how awful he was, but I couldn't listen. Couldn't care enough. It was the same thing, on repeat, until he noticed I wasn't paying attention. Then it was all about her, all about their marriage, and he knew I'd follow every word, and of course I did.

"I'm the worst kind of person. She's been a good wife, a good friend to me, and I've given her nothing. I ignore her and spend time with you. I make her feel stupid and crazy when she cries and begs me to stop. I tell her stuff like, 'We're just friends, you're paranoid, stop acting crazy', and then I jack off in the shower thinking about fucking you on your mom's counter downstairs, and then in my bed, because Rose has that huge mirror there that she needed to have when she went on that stupid diet and lost forty pounds. For me. She says she did it for me. Like I cared either way. I just want to watch us fucking in that mirror. I've tried watching her, but I don't _care_."

I said nothing. He stood up and continued.

"There's this girl who used to work at the diner, and she reminded me so much of you. She'd flirt with me, and wrote down her number once, and I thought, yeah, I'm gonna do this. When we'd flirt, I'd feel something. Like my heart would beat faster. I'd get high off it. It would last all day and I'd be in a better mood, and… but it's nothing like when you're here."

"What the… did you cheat on Rose?" I asked.

"No. Because I'm such a great husband, I even _told_ Rose about it. I should've just fucked her, and maybe it would've ruined my marriage, but it wouldn't have been as bad as this is. Because this will destroy her."

"Edward, calm down."

"If I leave now, with you, would you let me come?"

"What?"

"If I stay here, that's it. I need to do stuff. I haven't done anything for her. I didn't even give her a kid. She used to beg for one, like every day. Beg. I kept pushing it back. We weren't ready. We didn't have the money. Maybe next year. And Bella, she's been wearing me down, lately. I'm about to give in, or I was a few months ago, because..."

"If you give in, this can't ever happen."

I couldn't believe I was saying it out loud. Like it had ever been a possibility.

"_This_? Bella, _this_ is never going to happen. You're about to leave, and if you wanted me, _this _would've happened weeks ago."

Weeks ago. Weeks ago I wouldn't even have considered it. I wanted him, so much, but I knew he was off limits, and he was being disgusting? And mentally cheating on his wife? And didn't I know this? Why was I angry all of a sudden?

"What is wrong with you?" I shouted. "I told you I needed to just take this exam. I told you to keep your mouth shut for a few days."

"And then you put your hand on my dick."

"Leave, please."

"And gave me pictures I took of you when you were naked."

"I'm sorry. I was wrong. You're married and devoted to your formerly fat wife. Just go back to her and make things right, and leave the pictures here, and go back to pretending I don't exist."

But he didn't go. He reached behind me and took the pictures. I thought he was about to kiss me, touch me, and I started praying that Mom wouldn't be back until we were done, but he didn't do anything. Just walked to the door.

"Good luck. And after you're done with that and you're back from your trip, seriously, get some help. You need some help."

I was red and purple and crazy with anger.

"And you need a pair of balls. I feel sorry for you. Enjoy the—"

XxXxX

"And that's it. He left before I could finish my sentence."

Maggie says "wow" and pours herself another glass of wine.

"You didn't tell me those parts." Liz frowns. "Just that you gave him an over-the-pants hand job."

"Anyway, yeah."

I'm a little embarrassed, a little ashamed, of the words I just repeated.

"But you guys are still talking..." Maggie says as she's pouring the last drops of wine into my glass. Liz is still on her first, mostly just fidgeting with her phone at this point.

"He texted me good luck the night before the bar," I explain. Then he called me.

"And now he's visiting you?"

I shrug. "Yes."

"Oh boy."

"Just don't sleep with him, Bel," Liz tells me.

"No. That's exactly what she should do. Fuck him out of your system. Then send him home, and marry Liam. You can get _him_ to propose in six months. I guarantee you."

She considers what she just says, and then amends her statement. "Maybe a year, since he's only a first-year and probably needs to save up for a ring."

"Thanks for the advice, but I'm not you. And since you're dying to get married _again _maybe you should give Liam a call yourself."

"My second husband needs to be a Jew, otherwise I would! The man wants to settle down!"

"Back to the subject of Edward..." Liz interrupts. "Are you really going to... do you think he'll cheat on her?"

Maggie laughs and leans over to pinch Liz's cheek. "Oh, Lizzie. He's been cheating on her for months. At least now Bella's going to get some."

I laugh along with her, but my stomach is all knots and butterflies—mostly knots. I know what I want. And Maggie's right. And judging from the words he sends all day, this is it. I clear my throat and act like it's no big deal when I say, "I found a Groupon. Fifty percent off all waxing services. I made an appointment for tomorrow morning."

"Isn't your flight at two?"

"Yeah, but I'll be fine. The place is right off Waverly, so I'll jump on the E."

They both laugh. "Always prepared," Maggie says.

"I don't know… You don't want to miss your flight."

"Don't worry about me. Anyway…" I untie my hair and run my fingers through it with a smile. "Be honest… does it look good down?"

XxXxX

"I'm not reading it for you, Edward," I told him. "You're not gonna learn if—"

"Fine, I'll ask Rose to do it."

"Rose is a junior—"

"But she's smart. And she won't say 'no'."

I rolled my eyes, but made sure he didn't see.

"We could read it together," I suggested.

"I don't like poetry."

"Neither do I, but at least it's short."

So we tried, but it wasn't very successful. And the romantic parts made me stammer and act stupid, but I covered it all with yawns and pretended it was making me fall asleep.

"Why do they make us read this crap anyway?" he complained. "It's so boring. Mom had this book of poems she kept in the living room, on the coffee table, and Dad made her put it away because he said they're about sex. Or, I don't know, maybe he said they're sexy."

"Your Mom displayed erotic poetry in your living room?" I giggled.

"I didn't notice until I overheard her and Dad arguing. She said it was by her favorite poet. I think she was lying. Who has a favorite poet?"

"Lots of people, I think."

"Anyway, it made me want to read it, since it was about sex."

"Did you?" I asked.

"Nah. Couldn't find it."

"Too bad. We could've read it together."

His ears went pink and I laughed at his reaction when he eagerly said, "Yeah?"

"Or, you know, you could read it with Rose."

When he didn't say anything, I continued, testing boundaries, limits. "I mean, you were having sex with her face at my party."

"We were just kissing."

This time I didn't say anything.

"What? Were you watching us?" he asked.

"You were right there. And loud. And obnoxious. Everyone was watching you."

Not true. No one really cared.

"Well, whatever. She wanted to make out."

"Hey, she's your girlfriend, you don't need to explain—"

"For the last time, Bella, she's _not._"

This time I didn't hide my eye-roll.

"I don't know why you care, anyway. You've made it clear that you don't want to kiss me."

"Uh, I _don't_ care."

"Yeah, I know. Whatever. I'm gonna go home and look for that book. I'll let you know when I find it. We can get drunk and read it together."

That was a new thing. Getting drunk before doing things we'd normally just… do. Except no one ever ended up getting drunk. We'd just pretend for a few minutes, and then forget all about it until it was time to get rid of the evidence.

"Oh, and if you want to go to that fall formal, I can take you."

"Fall formal? Edward, just _go_. You're being weird."

He shrugged, looking over his shoulder, presumably at the bare wall behind him, not at me. "Fine. See ya."

And then before he was gone, "You know, what? _You're _weird."

And then, finally, he _was _gone. And he was referring to Rosalie as his girlfriend by the end of the week. And his girlfriend wore a pale blue dress to the fall formal.

XxXxX

_I just remembered your mom's erotic poems. _

_they're back in the living room!_

_omg, steal them and bring them with you!_

_LOL. ok. _

_Kiss me before I take off?_

_everywhere_

The older woman sitting next to me smiles. She must have noticed my face, the grin I've been trying to hide or suppress while we've been texting back and forth. I'm not even embarrassed. He just makes me feel… like words don't exist. I promised him nothing would happen, and he promised me back, but then our conversations turn us into liars, and we have to promise all over again. I won't touch him. I won't touch him. But I know I will. Because when I make those promises, I've got my fingers crossed behind my back, but he can't see them from so far away.

**you guys are patient and kind and awesome. work kept getting in the way, but i wrote a bunch this weekend, and i'll be posting everything i've got really soon. **

**so, who's the bigger asshole? and will they or won't they? and what's the biggest mistake you almost made? and the biggest one you _did _make? and would an epov completely ruin this story, or should i send you one soon?**

**thanks so so so much for reading.**

**mwah**


	13. Chapter 13

**i'm too impatient to wait to hear back from my beta and prereader, but bubbly90 read this and told me it doesn't suck that bad. Here you go. I'm sure you'll find typos, mistakes. I apologize in advance.**

**I don't own Twilight**

He hugs long and real and hard. I'm so glad he's here, with his sweet face and longish hair. It's only been three weeks, but it's grown out a bit, and kind of messy. It makes him look a little younger, and if I take out my contacts maybe I'll believe that he's the boy I kissed in corners before I left our small town so many years ago.

"I can see your face!"

"Yeah. Happy? I did it for you," he says.

"Lies. You did it for tomorrow."

"Maybe just a little, but mostly for you."

I'm on my toes and I kiss his cheek.

"Come on, let's put your things inside, and then we're having lunch with my friend's little sister and this girl we know from New York. She's in town for a wedding, and I promised. I'm sorry! I know you hate meeting new people, but...

"No, it's fine," he assures me.

"We're just going to this bar because there's some game on that Siobhan wants to watch. Then we need to stop by a few stores because I need a couple of things."

"Okay."

"And you need to tell me if the pillows are comfortable. I bought them yesterday, so I don't know, and—"

His hands are on my shoulders.

"Are you nervous?"

"Uh, a little bit," I confess.

"It's okay. I was nervous, too, driving down."

"Were you gonna change your mind?"

"I thought about it," he says. "But, no, I knew I wasn't going to."

"Good. Listen, this is no big deal."

"Yeah, and, Bella, I know when we were texting and talking it was pretty intense, but you know I'm not expecting anything..."

"I know. Same. I don't want you to feel like... I'm just glad you're here."

"Me too." He smiles. "It's been a long day. Mind if I use your bathroom?"

I can hear him. He's on the phone. It lasts maybe thirty seconds. I wonder what she knows, and how much she knows, and what she feels or suspects, and if she has any control over her marriage now.

Because he's here. And if she did, would he be?

XxXxX

He's talking. Answering questions. Laughing. Asking some of his own. Eating. He's being normal. Out in the real world. And he's here with me. And he listens to me. And he talks to me. And he says the nicest things. Everything looks nice. Everything tastes good. This is the best day he's had in a long time. Maybe ever.

He carries my bags and promises to help me rearrange things, because the couch would look better there, and the bookcase is so awkward in that corner. He lets me gossip, even though he has no idea what I'm talking about. I find out he has friends, like guy friends, back in Forks. I find out a lot of things. This is normal. This is how friends act and behave and spend time together.

And then sometimes it's not.

Sometimes I remember that he's going back. That even if something happens while he's here, I'll have to live with its consequences and some very real pain once he does. And it makes me wonder if it's worth even considering. It was so easy over the phone, or when my fingers were flying over my touchscreen. But now it's different, because he's real, and his lips speak, expressing his thoughts, and they move, so pretty, and so do his hands, and when I see his eyes I know things are going on behind them. And I want to know what. He breathes, he feels, he moves. He's not a picture on my phone. And my heart bursts every time he looks my way.

My poor heart. I don't know how it'll survive. It's like it already knows. On this beautiful day, when nothing bad has happened, the ache surprises me at the prettiest moments. The best ones.

It definitely knows.

XxXxX

In the elevator, we're staring at ourselves in the full-length mirror. He's so much taller than me, towering over me, and laughing at our reflection, feeling so big and tough. I pretend I can reach him, but I lose my balance, and we're giggling as I smack him in the chest.

I live for these minutes. The seconds that make them up. The hours that never seem long enough. Does he realize? Does he know? I try to memorize every little thing. I'm scared, because nothing he does embarrasses me. I haven't flinched once. I haven't looked over his shoulder, wishing for something better. I see him right here, in front of me, and that's all there is. This person with the grin that seldom leaves his face. The stubble he can't make go away. It comes right back. I get to tease him about it. My friends think it's sexy. I grab the front of his shirt a few times to remind them that he's not for them.

But when we're finally back at the apartment, the pillows and comforter on my couch remind me that he's not for _me_, either.

XxXxX

Casual. Casual. Casual.

A dress was too dressy. Jeans did nothing for me. The ones I owned weren't tight enough. They flared out too much. I wore them almost every day, the same three pairs I owned. I'd sat there in Esme's dining room wearing them hundreds of times, and sometimes in her kitchen when she was too lazy to set the big table, but that day, I wanted something different. Because everything was different. Just over twenty-four hours ago, her son had kissed me on my bed. Kissed my mouth. My chest. And then in the morning he had called me and told me to come over for dinner. But come early.

I ended up wearing jeans, but not my own. I had stopped by Tanya's house on my way over, and she let me wear a brand new pair she hadn't worn to school yet. We were the same size, but I had a butt, so she said they looked better on me.

They looked fine. Esme noticed, and said the nicest things. I thanked her and ran up to Edward's room. I was going to act casual. Casual.

But I was so scared. I was going to throw up, and I hadn't had a bite to eat all day. I needed gum. I needed it before he came too close to me. He'd have some. He always did.

Nothing happened at first. I was nervous, and he seemed fine. Then he was acting weird, and I was fine. Then we were both acting weird, and then he was next to me, really close to me, and all I could see was a mouth and a nose, and his lips were so big. Or maybe just big up close. Or maybe I needed to spend more time examining them, studying them, because they were full and pink, but a dark pink, and a little wet, and I didn't know I was doing it until it was done. I kissed them. Just a peck. And they were like soft, soft pillows or fluffy clouds or...

Knock, knock.

And I thought it was over, but Edward told his mother we were coming, and then there was more kissing. Really fast, rushed, wet, and the romantic in me thought... desperate, too.

He touched my breasts and held them and wanted to kiss them but I was shy. He kissed my cheeks instead, and my forehead, and pressed his body against mine and wouldn't let go until I reached out for his hand and took it in mine. All I was trying to do was to lead him out of his room and down the stairs before Esme got mad. But he squeezed my hand and kissed me again.

We pretended he didn't have a girlfriend. Or at least I did. I had no idea what was going on in his head. He walked me home that night. Not like _that._ We just walked together. If he'd liked me, if he'd been my boyfriend, he would have kissed me goodnight. Instead, he mumbled something about school the next day and figuring out what to do about Rose. I told him it's fine, I'd catch a ride with Tanya. I was used to it by then. Rosalie didn't have a car, and I didn't like the backseat. He shrugged and I shrugged and I had so much more courage then than I would ever have again. I kissed the corner of his mouth, and then couldn't resist the big, puffy lips. We ended up "studying" in my room, and when he reached for my boobs again, I let him.

XxXxX

"Your friend's pretty aggressive," he calls out, finally out of my bathroom, my shower. "I think she was hitting on me."

"She knows you're married."

"Still, she was pretty aggressive."

But I know what Siobhan was doing. Like her sister, Maggie, she's convinced that he can't be trusted.

"Are you... proud of yourself?" I ask him. "Like, you think you're so hot because some woman threw herself at you?"

"Are you jealous?" And he appears. All wet. In a towel. Barely.

"Oh, please. She was just testing you." Like you're testing me right now.

"Why would she do that?"

"She's my friend. Her sister is one of my _best _friends. And they don't trust you. And they think you should go back to Forks and never come back."

"Do you want me to go back to Forks and never come back?" he asks.

"I want you to go into my room, put on some clothes, and stop being naked in my living room. The floor's all wet, and I left out a robe..."

"You want me to wear a robe? Really?"

"Put on some pants, dude."

When he returns, he's in jeans, the new ones he bought today, all dark and hot and slimmer than the ones he was wearing when he arrived. He stands right in front of me, and I'm a bad girl, because I want to lick the denim, press my mouth against it.

"Sit."

He sits.

"So, are you meeting your friend tomorrow?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"And what will you be wearing?"

"Just a shirt. And, I guess..."

"And the blazer I picked out."

"Yeah, if I have to."

"You looked so good in it," I assure him.

"I don't want to look like a tool."

"I know it's not a job interview, but you want to look good. Professional."

"I need a suit," he says. "Not for tomorrow, but I think I should own one."

"Yeah, I think you should, too."

"Do _you_? I mean, I know lawyers wear suits a lot."

"Six. I think maybe seven."

"Wow."

"Yeah, I went a little overboard."

He tells me he wants to see them. Or _me_, in them.

"Are they like Sarah Palin suits? Like, cute? Or more... business-like?"

"Sarah... what? Uh, you think she wears cute suits?" I ask.

"Yeah. Like that red one. Remember?"

"You're so weird. Ew, I do remember. With those awful boots."

"Rose loved it. She bought a red suit and wore to work all year."

"I... can't. Tell me Rose didn't vote for McCain."

Edward shrugs, but he's not smiling or laughing.

"Tell me _you _didn't."

Nothing.

"Oh my God."

"What?" he asks—twice when I don't answer the first time.

"So you're a Republican."

"No..."

"So... why would you... You know what? Forget I asked."

His eyebrows move closer together, and I think he's annoyed.

"The economy, Bella. Democrats are always raising taxes. You know what that's like for people like me?"

"No, I don't. And I don't think you do, either. You're... I need to educate you." I laugh, because I'm half-joking. "Or reeducate you, if this is what you've been told. You realize how ignorant you sound right now, right? I mean, you must. Like, I don't understand, I just don't understand how... Do you realize that really, really rich people pay nothing compared to what you're paying in taxes, if you compare what you're making, and what they're making."

"They shouldn't pay more just because they make more..."

"Uh, yeah they should," I tell him.

"No, that's crazy."

"Okay, let me explain this to you," I start.

"You know what, Bella? I don't care. I don't care about politics. If you want me to vote for Obama next year, I will. Let's drop this."

"Why? We're just having a conversation."

"No, you're being condescending."

"I'm not... You just don't get..."

And I stop.

"Fine, okay, I guess that's pretty condescending," I admit. "But I know a lot of people get bad information, especially if they're not really paying attention. You said yourself that you don't care about this stuff..."

"I don't."

"But you _claim_ to care about the economy, about taxes—so you shouldn't be misinformed."

"I'm misinformed?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Who says you're not?" His knees are bouncing up and down, really fast, and he tries to stop them with his hands.

"I know I'm not. And I also know that your Palin-loving wife is insane and has probably brainwashed you."

"I don't know about _that. _Why do you think I don't have a mind of my own?"

"I know you do..."

"I do."

"I_ know_."

"I have a mind of my own," he tells me. And he's suddenly sitting much, much closer to me. "I make my own decisions. For instance, I told my wife I was sick of how she ignores what I want. I told her I'm coming to Seattle to talk to Emmett's cousin about a job. I told her that if I get the job, I'm moving here."

"Oh. And what did she say?"

"Who cares?"

"I think I do," I whisper. He's touching me now. Not the casual touches from the bar, or the sweet ones from when he first arrived. He's pulling me onto his lap. And I'm letting him.

"I care," I tell him again, "because if you guys are moving here, if you're going to be all married and happy and perfect in Seattle, there's no way I'm letting you touch me tonight."

"Bella, I promise..."

"Don't make any promises."

"But I do. I _swear._"

"Just shut _up_."

I haven't let my lips touch soft pillows or big, perfect clouds in so, so long. And I can't do it now. I can't. But I kiss all around. And the best place I find is his neck. And the best place he finds is my butt. With his hands. And the best place ever is where our bodies keep meeting. Touching. Over and over again. His hands make it more deliberate. They set a rhythm. I squeal like a little girl, but I'm not doing little girl things. This is bad. The worst. But also the best, best, because he feels better than my memories. Stronger hands. Sharper teeth. Breath still warm and perfect in my face. On my chest. My neck.

I look down. I'd be impressed, but I've seen it before. Somehow, they always look better under denim or cotton. I guess because it makes you want them more. To see what's there, taste it, feel it. I start talking, telling him how hot it makes me, apologizing for not appreciating it years ago. I just didn't know.

"I remember thinking, 'Edward was so thick'. Like, I thought that was normal, like all boys were like that. It was kind of disappointing."

I don't even know what I'm telling him, what I'm saying. But he's all, "Shit, shit," and other stuff, and his hands are on my thighs, then hips, and I wasn't wrong then. He was different. And I really, really want to see it again.

"You feel good," I tell him.

"You feel so good," he tells me back. "So good."

And I'm grinding, riding, loving the new jeans and my old ones and how they're moving against each other, creating this thing. This _thing_, and I'm going to lose it. Like, explode. Like, it's too, too much.

"No, like that," I instruct him. And I show him. And is that some sweat forming? And does he need to keep that t-shirt on? My hands go under it, on his stomach, and if I'm scratching, it's not on purpose. And he's not stopping me. Not. Stopping. Me.

He kisses my mouth. Once. Again. I try to resist. So much. I even bite his lip, like snap at it, but he thinks I'm being playful, and maybe I am.

"Keep doing that," I whine when he slows down. "You feel so good." He picks it back up. I sound dirty and wrong and like I'm having the best time. I am. "Edward, oh my God. That's... good."

And he's saying things too, but who knows what. I'm too busy to listen. And his words are half words. His sentences don't make sense. It's all noises and breathing and then his face in my cleavage. And his hands behind me. And any "cleavage" is gone when my bra ends up on the couch next to us.

"Come on," I tell him, trying to undo buttons and get rid of new pants and everything.

"Shit. Okay."

And again. "Okay."

I move off him a little to make it easier. Then I'm back on top, because I'm impatient, and I want this right now. We can have sex later. Right now he's big and delicious and thick and so hard under me. And his eyes are his eyes. And his hands are his hands. And I know them and I've loved them forever. I've watched those fingers play with dirt and sand and I've seen them dissect things and drop things and sometimes even build things. I've seen them in blonde hair, I've watched them reach out to touch my braids and ponytails. I've watched them fail and try and now I'm watching them on me. And when they're on me, they're always good, and they do good things, and I'd never deny them anything. Ever. Ever.

I close my eyes and hold him tight and maybe I'm choking him. Maybe lots of things. Like, maybe he's regretting this already. Or maybe he's about to come like I am. I'm going to come. A little more rubbing. A little more of the thrusting he's doing. I cry out and collapse and die on top of him. He's still moving, and even though I'm lazy, even though I'm tired and completely satisfied, I pull down his underwear and make sure he is, too.

**This chapter was in my head and I had to write it before I replied to your reviews for the last chapter, but I promise I'll send you the Edward stuff ASAP. **

**I'm super nervous, but whatever, I'm posting this. Let me know what you think?**

**thanks, guys.**

**mwah**


	14. Chapter 14

**thanks to my beautiful beta, WriteOnTime, and ciaobella27, who read this because i promised her smut.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

We're in my bedroom. It's what he wanted.

The couch would have sufficed.

We're naked. Again, his idea. Definitely a good one. We're kissing. It's all him. I'm just responding. Reacting. Being a good host. Being a good lover. Or the worst kind. He hasn't noticed. Or who am I kidding? I'm kissing him, too. At least right now I am. I'm making sure they're the deepest kisses. I'm making sure he's left breathless. I'm making sure his heart is pounding in the craziest, fastest rhythm. I'm making sure I feel it.

He attacks me. I'm terrified. Instinct. I want to protect myself. To fight back. That urge is gone in a second, though, and I'm lying back, waiting. I know what he wants. He doesn't want any more foreplay. He's done with the waiting and kissing and touching. The way he looks right now. How hard he is. How hot and ready. It's obscene. It weakens me. His arms. His thighs. The way he's right above me. He wants to fuck. Now I'm the one who's breathless. And I'm nervous as hell, my heart is about to stop, it's about to give up, but I know what's next. What will make it all better. I relax my body and open my legs for him. I reach out and grab the back of his head. Hold it, gently, run my fingers through his hair.

He's inside me so fast. His thrusts are hard and fast. This is all about him letting go of whatever he's got inside that's killing him. He needs to learn that this isn't going to work. It's not the way to do it. But I let him, because it feels good. I like it like this. I always have. He's always been half-angry in bed. It's almost like he has a personality. Feelings. Like if I ask him something now, he'll be decisive, firm.

It's very quiet sex. Yes, the sounds you'd normally hear are there. The reactions. I want to find something to complain about, be unhappy about, but the satisfaction I'm getting just from having him here, his knees on my sheets and his smell, and I can't even lie, his dick inside me. I could never complain again. Ever again.

My hand goes to his chest. He's so sexy. And he has no idea. I've distracted him. And he's looking down at my fingers, and then at my face. Everything slows down. He's resting on top of me now, still pushing into me, still not too sweet or romantic or soft, but his kisses make this less quiet. I'm shaking under him. He doesn't just kiss my neck, he sucks and nibbles, and then like he's taking care of a wound, he licks just a little before moving to a new spot. He's not quiet either, anymore. His hands find my breasts. My hands find his butt. I make him kiss me. I pull him so close. I become an active participant. I'm not a kid anymore. I'm not that kid.

It's weird how his hand automatically moves between us. It's something new. I push it away and use mine instead. And I'm touching him, and I'm touching myself. And then it's over pretty quickly.

I open my mouth over his shoulder.

"What if I bit you?"

"I don't care."

XxXxX

"I need to use the bathroom, but I feel really weird walking around naked with you here."

He laughs. "It's your place. You shouldn't feel weird."

"You'll be watching."

"Well, yeah."

"It's _weird_," I insist.

He kisses my nose and left cheek, and the right one is itching and aching and feeling left out.

"How is it weird?"

"I don't know. I guess I don't know how to do this. Like, how does this work?"

"You've done it before..." he says.

It's not the best thing to hear, but I'm laughing into his chest.

"I'm normally not this slutty," I promise.

"You're not—"

"Yeah, _okay_."

"I guess I'll just have to make an honest woman out of you."

"That's not funny." My voice cracks a little.

"I'm sorry."

He kisses me and I kiss back until I feel disgusting just lying here. I get up, naked and not caring, or caring just a little, because he _is_watching me. I giggle, and so does he, and when I'm back I throw myself onto him.

"See? You can do it," he tells me.

"Yeah."

"It's just like before. Except this time you love me back."

"Uh, you're crazy."

He's pouting. "You said it a dozen times."

"No, you're crazy for thinking I didn't love you then," I whisper. Things sound sweeter and more sincere when you whisper them.

"I really want to be with you," he says.

"You are."

And because he makes my heart so full and everything inside me so crazy, I'm under the sheets and grabbing him, and just as he says my name I kiss him. Again and again and again. Him. _It_. I guess just _it_.

He moves the sheets off me and touches my hair. My lips are on him, my tongue, too, a few times. I look at him and kiss it again.

"Remember how you used to beg me?" I ask.

He laughs.

"There goes all of my self-respect. Possibly my dignity, too."

"No. Keep doing it," he says.

I do. I'm not wasting another second. I'm never pretending again. This is everything. For now. Whatever makes him happy.

XxXxX

Just twenty minutes later, that attitude has vanished. Gone.

I'm spoiling him. He's going to leave tomorrow. He doesn't deserve any of this.

And the boy did nothing to bring this on. I think I'm crazy.

I'm wearing a long, oversized tank and sitting in the kitchen, hungry and thirsty, waiting for him to take out the Pop-Tarts he decided he had to have. He doesn't follow instructions, and they're going to be too hot to eat.

"You don't cook at all?" he asks me.

"I do. Basic stuff." I pinch his arm. "Were you expecting me to cook for you?"

"No, of course not. I was just wondering."

"Clean up after you? Bet you're used to that."

"I clean up after myself."

"Sure you do," I tease. "I bet you like being the man of the house."

"Is that a bad thing?"

I shrug, still smiling and not taking this conversation too seriously.

"Let me guess," Edward says. "You're above it all. You don't cook or clean for anyone."

"Uh... and how do I function?"

"You do it for yourself, but you're no housewife."

"Yeah, I'm really not. I'm _single_."

"You know what I mean," he says.

"Not really." Liar.

I blow on the Pop-Tarts a few times. He tells me I'm disgusting.

"I'll make breakfast tomorrow," I tell him. "Would that make you feel better?"

"I don't care about that stuff, Bella."

"Right..."

"Let's eat these, even though they're covered in your saliva, and then maybe we can go out and find something."

"It's so late."

"Isn't that what's so great about living in a city? Things are supposed to be open late," he says.

"I guess..."

He smiles and we both break our Pop-Tarts in half, waiting for them to cool down.

"This is such a nice place. Good neighborhood. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, it's not bad. It's not ideal, but when I got this job I knew I had to come back. Mom's so happy. And it's really a great opportunity."

"You wanted to stay?" he asks me.

"Yes."

"Your mom mentioned something about you flying out to take the bar exam in New York in a couple of months. Why would you do that?"

"It's a good bar to have."

"You want to move back there?"

"I don't know. Probably not," I admit. "I have a lot of friends there, but they're all settling down, getting married. It definitely won't be the same."

"Do you want that?"

"To settle down?"

"Yeah."

"You know how I feel about marriage. I'm not sure it's what I want."

"A lot of women say that, but do you mean it?" he asks. "Aren't you all supposed to want it? A wedding. Kids."

"I don't really believe... And I _know_ that sounds lame, but I don't really believe in it. I mean, I get why other people do it, but I don't think I could."

"So... if you fall in love and want to be with someone..."

"I've fallen in love," I tell him.

"With me."

"With you."

"You wouldn't want to marry me? Okay. I know that's a stupid question, but if things were different... Whenthings _are_ different..."

"I can't tell you what I'd want if you were single, if things were different. You're a bad example, anyway. Or, you know, a great example of why people _shouldn__'__t_get married."

And I can tell I've hurt his feelings, which is so ridiculous. I push away my plate and put my hands on his chest.

"It's about me, though," I tell him. "I honestly don't know if I can be a wife. Be married. I don't think it's sustainable. And not because people cheat. I just don't... understand it."

"What don't you understand?" he asks.

"Don't you think it's strange? It's like this strange situation... I'm here, you can't escape me. You might want to escape me, but that would make you a _bad_person. And I love you, and I don't want you to be a bad person. Why do that to the person you love? To a relationship?"

"Bella... that's very cynical."

"Is it? Aren't you trying to escape from your own marriage?"

"We have problems. We've had them for a while now. Not everyone—"

"No. _Everyone_."

He doesn't argue with me. He washes some glasses and then joins me on the couch. I'm in his arms, pressed up against his side.

I think about what I told him, what I said I believe. And all of it is true, at least to me, but I also know that I have dreams and fantasies. They involve big parties and white dresses. But it's all part of what I've been told I should want. And dresses are pretty. I don't know. I don't know what the alternative is. Casual relationships? Long-term relationships with no marriage license? How would that be any different?

I want to tell him I want him, I'd be with him, I'd be a wife. But I don't want to become Rose. I don't want to become my mom. And even worse... I think that in that situation, I'm more likely to be my dad.

Why do they come back and make everything sad?

"Hey," I breathe into his ear. "I want us to do that again."

"I know. I don't want to leave."

I climb on top of him, kiss him a few times.

"I know. It's like I _knew_, but now I _know_."

"What do you mean?" he asks, brushing my hair off my face and sucking lightly on my jaw.

"I mean... being here with you... _being_with you... I know it's not just a crush."

"You had to_sleep_with me to figure that out?"

His hands are still on me, but they're different. I caress his cheek and rest my head against his chest to calm him.

"No," I explain, "I just wanted to know if it would be like before, if it was all in my head. And you _know_ you wanted to know, too. If there's something..."

"What the fuck have we been doing all summer, Bella? Do you think I'd be here if I didn't know? I didn't have to have sex with you to—"

"No, you didn't. Because you've done that before and you made a choice. You married your choice. That's done. Don't make me feel like I'm a bad person or that I don't love you enough just because I had to have this again."

"What do you want from me?" he demands.

"What do you mean? What are you giving _me_?"

"Answer my question. Are you only interested in sleeping with me? What do you want?"

"You're married," I remind him, standing up. It makes him look worse. It's mean, because I want it to be. "What I want doesn't even matter. This. I want this. I want you. What do you want me to say? 'Leave Rose and move in with me'? I'm not telling you to do that, just like I didn't tell you to dump her back in high school."

"Great, so let's have a repeat of that."

"Why are you acting like it's on me? Like this is my fault?"

"You won't tell me what you want," he says. "I don't even know if you'd want to be with me."

"_Be_ with you? You're really going to leave your wife and then just _be_with me? Just like that. Smooth transition."

"I know it sounds simple and even a little cruel, but, listen—"

He grabs my wrists and brings me down onto the couch next to him.

"Listen," he starts again, "I'm not a bad guy. I wasn't even a bad husband. Yeah, I thought about you from time to time, and yeah, I was attracted to other women. I never did anything bad, not until now, not until this summer. I know I don't seem like someone you'd want to keep around, but Bella, if I were married to _you,_if you were my wife—"

"Are you serious right now?"

"I would never, _never_, cheat on you. I'd never disres—"

"Oh my God. I can't talk about this right now."

"Then when? We need to figure out stuff."

"I don't know," I say. My tone is a little softer, and it calms him down. He holds me while I think. And I'm lucky he can't read my thoughts. Even I can't. There are so many of them. They're conflicting. I think he loves me. I think this is real. I think he'd leave her if I told him it's everything I wanted. But I don't trust him. I genuinely do not trust this man. I think he'll chicken out once he's back there. I think he loves her more than he knows, more than he wants to love her. I think I'll be waiting for a long time before he finally acts. I think it will kill me. I want him to call her right now and tell her it's over. My dad did it. He destroyed lives with a simple phone call.

See? I'm sick. I'm a bad person. And I'm crying all over his shoulder. Into his neck.

"Bella, it's okay. We'll do whatever you want."

What do I want?

"If you want me to, I'll leave, and I'll give you some time."

Please leave. Go. But I can't say it out loud.

"It's okay. Stop crying. Please."

And again, "please." And then again. And again.

When he knows it's not working "please" turns into "I love you," and I'm calmer, but not because of his words. I never cry for long.

XxXxX

This isn't a fairytale. Or a love story. It's not much of anything.

He's staying one more night because I won't let him go back. I guess the job was a myth. People exaggerate. He's not crushed like he should be, but definitely disappointed. And disappointment is the worst. I can't watch it, see its effect on people. It makes me cringe. I'm uncomfortable and sad for him. But it's like I knew things wouldn't come easy.

Maybe it's for the best, I tell him. What if Rosalie decided to follow him here without any arguments? What if she did that to make him happy? How do you say "no" and tell that person it's over? Not that I think he'll be able to tell her it's over anytime soon. He thinks he will. I just rub his shoulders and tell him nothing. I think I said "it's okay" once. But that's the behavior that got us here in the first place. It's not okay. I love him.

And just as soon as those words pop into my head I'm asking myself, "Do you love him?" I think so. I hope so. At least until he breaks my heart again. Then I can just pretend it was lust. A game. Just another guy I wanted badly. So much that I had to make him sleep with me. Just another one of those.

He's here for another night, and even if he's upset, he wants sex, and he wants cuddles in the bedroom and kitchen and on the floor. He's got a tiny bit of romantic in him, and we're joking about kissing and rolling around and kissing some more, so I move the coffee table, but the floor is hard and it hurts. He's poking me and I'm poking him and no waves are crashing over us. But he fucks me slowly in the middle of the living room, and now I'll never be able to forget this. Just like that goddamn green wall.

Suddenly, out of nowhere (but not really):

"This is so wrong."

I'm not even angry. I just ignore him.

"But I want this," he continues. "Last night I thought maybe it's just about sex. Shit, I don't know. I don't know, Bella. What am I doing right now? I want to take you back with me. This was the best summer of my life."

He's babbling on like a child. He sounds ridiculous. Stupid. Crazy. But crazy about me. And so confused. I see this, I see what he's turned into. A half-naked boy lying on my floor, trying to figure out his life. It makes me sad, because I've been such a shitty friend.

What have I done to you? I want to ask. But I'm not sorry. Not even a little bit.

**busy, busy week, but here's another chapter. i hope you guys received the epov and enjoyed it. i've been writing a lot of it lately just to get in his head. if you want it, just ask.**

**anyway, i know a lot of you are annoyed or upset. tell me your thoughts anyway? predictions? judgments? send them my way. **

**thank you. mwah.**


	15. Chapter 15

**i wasted enough of my beta's and prereader's time this weekend, so this is unedited. blame me for the mistakes. i'm impatient. it's been too long.**

**i don't own twilight**

I kiss his mouth, smearing around the whipped cream from the hot chocolate we've been sharing. When he sees my face his smile is big and wonderful, like the hands that go up and down my side and settle on my waist. He's bringing me closer to him. Too close in public. So close that we're probably annoying everyone else in the restaurant. Perhaps a few of them think it's cute, and they're smiling as they watch us, maybe remembering something similar from their pasts. I hope so. I hope everyone here has felt like this at least once.

His mouth is on my face. Smack, smack, smack. Big, stupid kisses. I grab a napkin and start cleaning up the mess we've made. He's so lovely. He's so happy. He won't stop kissing me.

"Who are you?" I giggle, wiping off some cream from his chin. His eyes follow my movements, the napkin, and I know he's about to try something, so I grab his hands and hold them down.

"Who are you?" I repeat. And I kiss him like he was kissing me. All over his cheeks, nose, jaw, and chin. "Where's the quiet, serious boy I know? Where's the grouch? Why isn't he pouting?"

"I..." He kisses me so I stop. "Don't." And he's doing it again. "Know you," I finish.

Edward doesn't say anything. Just returns my kisses and frees his hands and holds me with them. He _never_ says much, but it's enough. I don't think I could handle more. The one-word responses, the short sentences... they kill me. They make me lose my mind and lose control. Every second is full of him. Every breath. I'm overflowing with Edward, and it always feels like I'm about to burst. And that's why I'm here right now, just two weeks after he left my apartment, kissing him in a small cafe in Port Angeles. Because the idea of waiting for an opportunity once I arrived in Forks made us sick. We couldn't wait. I can't wait. I can't.

"I think she wants us to go," he says.

"We'll go when we're ready. We'll just leave the best tip."

"We don't have to head straight home. Leave your car here. We can drive around for a while and then I'll bring you back to get it."

"I want to go home with _you_," I tell him. Silly and ridiculous, with big eyes and a tiny frown.

"I'll be right next door."

"Hmmm..."

"Come on. I wanna see how you look in the backseat of my car."

"In your dreams."

He kisses me. Like, eats my mouth. I'm a little dizzy.

"Really?" he asks. And he does it again. "_Really_?"

"I love you." I sound like an idiot.

"You're cute. Come on."

He won't let me pay. I argue a little, but let it go once we're outside. He's holding my hand and swinging our arms between us and then pressing me up against his car and kissing me again. The wind is in my hair, and I can't control it. I stop trying, and focus on him. If he's even feeling half of what I'm feeling... I'll take that. It's enough.

"Hey Bella?"

"What?" I giggle. His nose is tickling my neck.

"I need to tell you a secret."

"What?"

But he keeps messing with me. Kissing, and just breathing against my neck, and blowing warm air, and gripping the waistband of my jeans, fingers on my skin.

"Whisper it," I tell him.

He says something, or pretends to, and I obviously can't hear, so I protest with angry hands and sounds. He does it again, teasing me mercilessly.

"Edward!"

"Fine, fine. Guess."

"Were you saying you love me?" I ask. And I'm batting my lashes. Because I'm a loser.

"No, I just like you _a __lot_. "

I smack him and push him away, but my heart is so happy.

"I love you, Bella. A lot," he insists. "I missed you a lot." His face is more serious now, and he's playing with the zipper on my jacket. Up and down. Up and down.

"Yeah, the apartment is kind of empty. No wet towels or ashtrays everywhere."

"I'll be back. Don't let other people leave things around."

"Then you'll have to hurry back soon," I warn him. And he knows, but he doesn't want to argue.

"I will. I just can't believe you're here right now. When you told me you wouldn't be back until the holidays, I honestly believed you."

I blush, and hate him for a second, but I know he's not being smug, or an asshole.

We kiss again, and I pull him closer, grabbing his t-shirt. So old and thin and soft. It's looser around the neck now. I should stop the grabbing and pulling, but I don't want to. When I used to sit around watching him in class, or in the cafeteria, I'd wish I could do things like that. Touch his arm, kiss him and grab him by his shirt. Stupid things. But I wanted them so much.

"You're so hard right now." I'm laughing into his neck. "Shame on you."

"Come on," he says. "Let's go before we run out of time."

We park in the middle of nowhere, somewhere just outside Port Angeles. I don't want him to have to initiate. I don't want him to freak out, or think, so I jump into the backseat. It's actually more of a scramble to get back there, but he follows me a few seconds later, opting for the door. My jacket is in the front seat, and I'm undoing all these buttons, wishing I'd worn something else. His jacket is on the floor, but he keeps his t-shirt on.

Whatever. I still pull it up and kiss his stomach, and everywhere, and taste him until I miss his mouth. I sit up and he grabs my boobs. And grabs and grabs.

"When did these get so big? I've been meaning to ask you."

"Uh, big?" Your wife's are at least two cup sizes bigger. "Not big, but nice enough." I pull down a cup and show him. "Pretty," I compliment myself.

And his mouth and sounds and teeth agree.

"Owww!"

"I miss them, Bella. Shut up."

"But be gentle..."

Nibble, nibble. Suck. Bite.

"Or don't. Um, _yes. _Ow. Ow. Ow."

When he ends up on top of me, with my pants off and his pants undone, I lift his shirt off a little because I like to feel his skin on mine. I love his stomach, how warm he is against me. I want to feel his chest hair. I just do.

He insists on kissing me everywhere. As much as we can with so little time, in the backseat of a car. His stubble tickles; his mouth is electric. I can't believe we're doing this here. I'm covering my face with my hands, embarrassed at how much I'm enjoying this, loving it. Too shy to stare at him while he does it.

He's impatient, and ready. He kisses the long scar inside my thigh, and then the one on my knee. Maybe later I'll ask if he remembers how I got them. If he remembers, he's worth it. Worth everything.

I hug him with my legs, and cling to him with my arms, and just like when we were kids, his mouth doesn't leave mine the entire time he's inside me. I can't explain what that's like. The closeness. The warmth. The oneness. I could cry, it's so good. I'm so in love. So, so in love.

I cry out when I come. The kiss ends, but his lips are still here, and our noses touch, and while I'm catching my breath his mouth moves to my neck, and the grunts and groans are the same. They make me want to do this all over again.

We can't lie here like this forever. Eventually he sits up, and I grab my shirt from off the floor.

These are the worst minutes, and I don't hide it from him... I hate this. I'm biting my bottom lip because I don't want to cry. He's annoyed, because I'm ruining everything, but he's sweet to me for some reason, and I let him treat me like a child. Take care of me. Spoil me with words and kisses. He starts helping me with my buttons, and I let him take over. I frown at his smile when he reaches the one that will cover my chest, but he kisses my cheek and touches my face.

"You get so pink when you come," he tells me. "All over your chest. It's fading, but I can still see it."

I shrug, and reach over to open the door.

"Come on."

"What? We should go."

"Bella..."

I shrug again, and he groans, probably pissed off by now, but he's hugging me, my face in his chest, and I almost forget that I'm trying not to cry. He comforts me like no one else. I really like it. I like being here, like this. I like how he smells, and it calms me, and he's patient, and I don't want to push it, so I whisper that I'm okay.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I need some air."

I open the door and step out, and I'm feeling so silly. I jump around a little and shake out my arms.

"Ugh, I'm such a loser." I laugh. "I don't know why I get like that."

"It's okay."

"It's lame."

"You've cried over dumber things," Edward says.

"Like what?" I challenge him.

"Like..." He takes out a cigarette and his lighter, and leans back against the car. "I don't know... Lots of times, growing up. You'd cry a lot."

"Did not!"

"Want one?" he offers, but I shake my head, and he shrugs. "You were sensitive about everything. You tried to hide it, though."

"I'd cry when I was alone, like, at night."

"And in the bathroom, if someone hurt your feelings. You'd come out and you'd be sniffling, pretending you had a cold."

"I hated your cousins. They were so mean to me."

"I hated them, too." He holds up his cigarette. "This is their fault. They pressured me into it."

"But you make it look so good. It's so wrong." I shake my head. "It's wrong how good it looks."

He puts it between my lips, and I don't protest. He laughs when I blow some smoke into his face.

"It looks good when you do it, too."

"So we both think smoking is sexy."

"Smoking is disgusting," he says. "It's a bad habit, so you won't be doing that again."

"You'd be a great father."

"Sure." He scoffs. "The best."

"_I_ think so..."

I watch him put out the cigarette, smiling at his choice of footwear. He's always wearing those boots.

"Do you want kids, Bella?"

I look up. What the hell?

"I guess, maybe. Yes, I want kids."

"_Really_?"

"Yes, why?"

"You don't believe in marriage..."

"One has nothing to do with the other."

"I think it does," he says. "At least for me."

I snort, and I'd roll my eyes at him and his morals, but I don't.

"Don't believe everything I tell you. I don't believe in marriage, at all, but I want to be someone's bride. And I want him to want to spend his life with me. That, I want."

I'm in his arms again, and his hands are on my butt.

"Why can't married men propose?" he jokes. I hope.

"This is what probably got you in trouble in the first place. Stop asking people to marry you."

I squeeze him tight. So tight. "Come on, let's go. I need to get back to my car."

"Race you back to Forks?"

"No, idiot." I pause, and think. "Maybe I should go back to Seattle. We saw each other, and... it's not like you're going to be able to spend time with me this weekend..."

"Are you serious?"

"You know it's a bad idea."

"Bella..." He grabs my hands and links our fingers together. My favorite. "Please."

I open my mouth, but his second "please" shuts me up.

"I promise, it won't be bad."

His promise is laughable and ridiculous, but I already know I'm not going back to Seattle today. It doesn't matter how depressing this is, or how painful it might get, or how many times I'll regret making these decisions. I slide into the passenger seat, rest my head against the window, then against his shoulder, and when I feel that sadness, that cold, lonely, shitty feeling take over again, I don't even need to bite my lip or swallow back tears for him to notice. He just knows. And it's sweet how he smiles and squeezes my knee in an attempt to make it better, to lighten things up. It absolutely doesn't work, but it's sweet.

XxXxX

"Look at my nails," I say, holding out my hands for Tanya to see. "I keep biting them, and biting around them, because I go crazy waiting to hear from him. It's, like, if he doesn't call or text when he's supposed to..."

"_Bella_."

"What? It's true. I'm going _crazy_."

Tanya groans and stands up to walk over to where Lexi is trying to climb onto Dad's old chair.

"Okay. Last week you told me you were done. You even went out with Liam, and told me you liked him. He's _single_ and interested in you! What happened?"

"We were hanging out as friends. And, you know, it gets so frustrating sitting around loving him when he's with her, and I say things, but I don't _like _Liam."

"But you said..." She's pleading with me to listen, to admit. And she's pleading with Lexi to stop the soft whining that's impossible to ignore.

"I _said_, but I'm always talking. I don't care how many times I told you I'm over it. I'm not."

"Keep your voice down unless you want your mom to hear this conversation."

"She's next door," I tell her. "Tanya..."

"What?"

"What do I do?"

"You let it go," she says. "He's a husband. If my husband... This conversation is making me paranoid. I want to fly back home _tomorrow_ and make sure he's not messing around with anyone. Jesus, Bella. Take a good look at your life. This isn't you. Who _are_ you?"

Sounds from the kitchen startle us, and we sit still, not speaking.

"Come in, Rose. No need to take off your shoes!" We hear Mom say.

"Oh God."

"Shit. I need to see her," Tanya whispers. "I haven't seen her in years."

"I'm not going in there."

"Fine, stay here with Lex, and don't walk into your own kitchen because you're too scared to face your lover's _wife._"

This actually makes me gasp.

"You're such a bi..." I start, but Lexi's looking at me with big eyes. "You know what you are, Tanya."

Of course I follow her into the kitchen, grabbing the kid on my way.

Rosalie remembers Tanya and they're polite, yet reserved, for two seconds, but once she sees the baby in my arms, she loses it. It's all oohs and ahhs and arms reaching out, and "Can I?"

Tanya nods. And even though Rose is taking Lexi from my arms, she doesn't acknowledge me.

How old, and are there others, and tell me more, and are there pictures, and show me, and when, and where, and names, and the usual. And I love Tanya's kids. I do. They're the cutest. And they can be so funny. And I've played with them. And if anything ever happened to them I'd kill the motherfucker who put them in harm's way.

But come on. You hardly know the woman. You can't possibly care this much about a stranger's kids. Stop being nosy. I'm so irritated right now.

"We're still waiting, but I can't wait to have something like _you_," she says to Lexi. "Look at that dress! Did Mommy buy that for you? How precious. Oh, Tanya, she's so sweet!"

I'm seeing red. My mother and best friend are sitting in our kitchen, talking babies with Rosalie.

"Hey Rose, is Edward around?"

"He's in the garage, Bella, but he's busy."

She doesn't even look at me when she talks to me. So I walk out the door and make sure she hears it slam shut. Her husband is the last person I want to see right now, but there's nowhere else for me to go.

XxXxX

I told him why I was so irritated, and he really had nothing to say but, "Why did you go in there?"

We argued, and he apologized, but it was just to calm me down. Because who wants an angry lover less than 100 feet away from the wife you've been cheating on? He used kisses and whispers, but I pushed him off, and when he finally stopped trying I discovered he always wears button-fly jeans, and I found the cleanest corner in his garage, and I made him fuck me. I don't care, I told him, just go really fast. And I didn't care. I just really, really wanted to do something terrible. To her, and possibly to him, too. But instead, once it was over I was rewarded with butterfly kisses and eskimo kisses and kisses that softened my heart and melted my insides.

"Baby," he whispered right after he came.

"_Baby_?"

"You don't like it?" Out of breath, he sounded lovely.

It's all I wanted just a few years ago.

But it just sounded funny. And not ha-ha funny, like calling someone "baby" is _so_ridiculous and lame. Because it's not. It just sounded strange. And no, I didn't like it. I didn't like that, and I didn't like how he made sure I was calm and happy, taking me to the store with him to pick up the groceries he had forgotten to buy. By the time I got back to the house Rose was gone, and Mom was in the living room with Tanya and Lexi, who were getting ready to leave. Mom told her to come back if she had time tomorrow, to talk to me. She always gave the best advice, Mom told her. Later, Tanya swore in a text that she hadn't said a word. I believe her. My mother is not stupid.

And she doesn't take shit. If she's taught me one thing it's to have some self-respect. Don't take shit.

And I don't want to anymore. I realize I helped create this situation, but that doesn't mean I'm stuck with it.

I still want _him_.

I want to touch, kiss, lick, feel. Adore. I want to fuck him. I want to talk to him and feel beautiful and interesting, and I want to fall asleep to his voice. And when he asked me if I wanted kids? Just his. And if I had to be a wife, as stupid as it sounds given our situation, he's the only man I'd do that for. But I don't want _this. _I don't want a married man. A dishonest man. Maybe he's the cutest, and no one will be as warm, or familiar. Maybe he'll be the best I ever had. Best friend, best lover. Just best. But I can do so much better with my life. The magic moment has passed, that I know. Whether or not I'll find it again with someone else, another man... It doesn't matter. Because I know it's not this man. It's not now.

**sorry for the long wait. i've had the craziest month. pretty sure updates will be frequent from now until the end, so will the review replies. please share your thoughts. i'm nervous and i miss you.**

**thanks so much for reading.**


	16. Chapter 16

**the mistakes are mine. thanks for reading, guys.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

When I was seventeen I was too scared to tell him I wanted more. The idea of everything ending, never touching him again, made me cry. I thought I'd die without him in my life, and while those first few weeks felt like something worse than death, I survived. I wasn't okay, at least not while I was still in Forks, but I had a lot on my mind—graduation, college, my parents' divorce—and not enough time to constantly feel sorry for myself.

The pain felt fresh again when I heard about their marriage, but I also felt relief that it wasn't me, and I was able to judge their choices, and that made me feel better.

_I _wasn't given a choice back then. One day he was my best friend and the boy who dragged me to dark places to kiss me, and the next day he was nothing. He sat there with her and pretended I didn't exist. I hated that. I should have ended it before he had a chance to. My ego, my pride, couldn't handle it. I was embarrassed. It didn't matter that Edward and Tanya were the only ones who knew what had happened. It was embarrassing, and painful, and I felt like a small, insignificant thing. Like I was nothing to him. Like we hadn't spent years having no other friends. Like we hadn't spent that morning together in New York. None of that mattered to him.

I'm still terrified of letting go. I can't think about tomorrow, or next week, or any amount of time I'll have to spend without the anticipation of hearing his voice, seeing him, having some kind of future with him. A part of me wants to drive back to Seattle tonight and call him once I'm alone in my apartment. Another part of me is thinking that I don't have to say anything. I can ignore him, and he'll eventually understand that this is over. But I know I can't do either of those things.

What if I gave him an ultimatum? (And what if he stayed with her?) Telling him it's over is essentially the same thing. He's going to think I'm asking him to choose. And I'm not.

But I am. Who am I kidding? If he leaves his wife tonight, will I reject him?

I'm not ready. I'm not. And I can't imagine that he's ready, either. If he leaves her, what happens? Where does he go? Do I want to have him with me? How long before I'm her, and he's restless and bored, and... I need to stop this. It's not always like that. It can be good. Happy people exist. Even in relationships.

This headache is ridiculous. It's almost noon. He'll be here in a few minutes, and I don't have a plan. I asked Mom to give us some privacy, and she nodded. I want to know how much she knows, and if she's right, and if she'll ever forgive me if I come between them. _If_. I'm laughing now. She's all I have. Dad wouldn't care enough to get upset, to be disappointed.

I wonder if what I said to Edward about being a good father is true. He can be so emotionally detached sometimes. Look at his relationship with his wife, and look at what he's doing now. When the excitement and lust and newness of this go away, will he turn cold toward me, too? Yes. I can't even lie to myself and say he'll be different. I want to, so badly. I want to imagine being with a loving, warm man. This has nothing to do with whether or not he'd cheat again. I just crave that closeness with someone. I've never had it. Either they left or I chickened out before anything real could ever form. And I'm doing it again, but he's not mine to be close with.

I can't imagine being that close, being so in love, and then... nothing.

I just hope that when I look back at these couple of weeks I can feel a sad, but pleasant ache. Maybe even smile at vague memories. Not this year, or next year, but in ten or twenty. Or, better yet, I want to forget. Forget he ever existed. Forget he ever touched me. I wonder what that would feel like. Would I be aware of the void created by the absence of any memories associated with Edward? I can't imagine that—walking around knowing there's something I forgot. Like that thing you forgot to pack, or the last item you forgot to put on your shopping list. What _was_ it? That always drives me crazy.

Or, I could just truly forget. No traces of him, no empty spaces that can't be filled. Maybe he's not that important to me. Lust and want and excitement are powerful things.

And it's possible that I've never been that important either.

XxXxX

"Is your mom here?" he asks. His eyes quickly scan the kitchen, and he has his answer. I get a kiss on my nose and a smack on my mouth. Fast, easy, like we've been doing this forever.

"She's upstairs."

He starts biting the skin around his nail. I yank his thumb out of his mouth.

"I can't stay long," he says. "She skipped church this morning, but had to go help her mom with lunch. I don't think she's staying, though."

"Then why did she go?"

"It's a church thing, Bella. I don't know."

"What's wrong?" I ask. He's nervous. Anxious.

"Nothing. Let's talk later."

But his hands are on the counter, not on me. It's not that kind of "Let's talk later."

"I thought you couldn't stay for long."

"Half an hour?" he estimates.

"Then let's talk now."

"Okay..."

"Sit," I tell him.

He looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

"No."

"Why not? Just sit. You're making me nervous standing around like this."

"I know what you're doing."

"What am I doing?"

He shakes his head, refusing to speak.

"Edward."

"Don't do it." He reaches out and grabs my arms. "Go back to Seattle, and we'll talk about this. Just not now."

"I can't anymore."

Maybe if I keep looking into his eyes like this he'll give me reasons why I can.

"Why not?"

"I don't know," I tell him. "I hate this."

"It's not always gonna be like this. Just give me a couple of weeks."

I look at him like he's crazy.

"Days?" he tries again.

"I don't know what I want."

His face falls.

"Don't do that," I tell him. "I don't mean it that way."

"I know what I want," he says. And he's trying to show me by squeezing my arms and then taking my hands in his.

"_Right_, okay."

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't offer any solutions. I wait, and wait. I'm still waiting. He's holding me, still silent, and I know that only seconds, and not minutes, have passed, but it's too long.

"You're still with her, Edward," I tell him. I'm not looking into his eyes anymore, because talking about this makes mine wet. "I don't want this to come out wrong. I'm not telling you to leave her, but you're still with her."

"I'll—"

"I hate her. I've hated her every day since you told me you met her. I'm so jealous. I'm _so_ jealous. I wanted to snap her neck last night. The fact that you didn't just leave and be with me, both in high school and now... I hate both of you."

"Stop talking about _then_. This isn't about then. You rejected me every day of my life and I still came back to you."

"You keep saying that like I knew you were interested in me. I was a stupid kid."

"I kissed you. We had sex. I tried—"

"Are we really discussing this _again_?"

"You started it. Stop acting like you were innocent."

"I was," I cry. "I was innocent. And you took that away. I was so desperate for you to like me that I did all of those things. You could've told me you liked me, but you didn't."

"I had to _tell _you?"

"Yes! Yes, you had to tell me."

"I've been telling you for weeks, and you want to break up—"

"You sound like a kid..."

He's angry. If he storms out, this is over. Easy. Finished.

"You want what you can't have. You didn't let me touch you until I met her. If I leave her... Rose is right. You're only interested in me because I'm married. And I, I just want you. That's the difference between us."

"'Rose is right'? Do you two _discuss_ me? Does she talk about me and think she knows anything about me?"

"Yeah, she talks about you. She's talked about you every day since you moved back."

"Does she know?" I ask him. I feel like I'm going to pass out. I need a glass of water. Or a chair. I'm terrified and ashamed and I really don't want to let that other feeling in. I don't want to be excited. I can't be excited about this.

He nods. His face is in his hands.

"We argued yesterday, and she told me she knew. I don't know when or how she figured it out..."

My heart, my pulse. Racing. I need to calm down before my head explodes.

"Did you deny it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"She was upset."

"So you lied to her?"

"It's like instinct. It was the first thing that came out of my mouth."

"Did she believe you?" I ask.

"She wanted to."

"So, yes, she believed you."

"After a while."

"You _convinced _her?"

"No, I—"

"Instead of coming clean and ending things with her you convinced her that nothing was going on."

"I told her we needed some time to think about things. I suggested taking a break."

"You're disgusting."

"Bella... I'm going to ask her for a divorce. I told her I wasn't happy."

"I don't believe you," I tell him. "You had your chance. You could've been done by now."

"Done?" he shouts. "This is eight years of my life you're talking about. I wasn't going to slam the door behind me and come over here like she never happened. Like those eight years never happened. She's my wife."

"You acted like those eight years meant nothing to you each time you came over. Each time we hung out this summer. And when you slept with me?" I realize I'm shouting, but can't control it. "You _slept_ with me. You said you were in love with me."

"Bella, listen to me. I am. And I want us to be together, but I couldn't end our marriage like that. I couldn't—"

"Because you're a coward. Listen, you're right. You owe her more. Go back. None of this ever happened. Will that make you feel better?"

"I want you."

"Not _enough_. You're _all_ I want. When I first realized I was in love with you I couldn't speak up, voice my opinion, because I was so scared of losing you. Even half of you was enough. Even a hair. A look. Anything. But I give all of myself to you, and you still have to have a girlfriend, and now you need time. You need your wife. You need to be sure. Fuck that."

"What about Liam?" he asks, looking proud of himself for coming up with a way to attack me. He's no longer playing defense.

"Oh, please. I'm not playing this game."

"You keep taunting—"

"I said I'm not playing this game with you."

I walk to the table and sit in my usual seat, resting my head on my hands. When he's behind me, and when he touches my shoulders and squeezes them, I don't stop him. His thumbs massage my neck. Then he stops and kneels beside me.

"You're right. I should've come clean."

I shrug.

"I'll tell her. She knows I love you. It kills her. I didn't want it to be because of you. I'll tell her everything."

"Don't." He's not going to see tears. And if he leaves now, he won't hear the change in my voice. "I don't want her to hate my mom, or know about any of this. Just forget it."

"I—"

"I'm gonna tell my mom I'm leaving."

I stand up thinking I'm going to want to hug him one last time. Kiss him. Smell. Hold. Cry into his shirt, right by the little pocket on his chest. But I have no desire to touch Edward, and it's not difficult at all to walk right by him and toward the stairs.

Later, Mom tells me he was still in the kitchen when I asked her to check and make sure he was gone. He thought I was coming back down. "What a mess," she says to herself, and I start crying. "He didn't have his car keys, and didn't want to go home. But what could I do?" I shrug and cry harder. "Do you want to talk about it?" I shake my head and she knows it's for the best. "You've got a brand new job and a brand new life. Go, live it. Don't be like me. Don't cry for that stupid boy. He's only brought you sadness."

But that's a lie. Because pure joy, the kind that makes you weightless and free, is something I've only ever experienced with him. On the grass behind his parents' house when we were ten. In the city with big buildings. Even thousands of miles apart on an iPhone screen.

But I nod. I wash my face. She offers to come stay with me, but I hug her and tell her I'll be fine.

"Of course you'll be fine. You're so much stronger than me. This is nothing. You'll laugh about it soon."

"Maybe we can go somewhere for Thanksgiving. Or you can come to Seattle."

"That sounds nice, Bella."

I smile, and I couldn't be holding my head up any higher as I'm walking to my car. Don't look. He's probably gone anyway, but don't look. I'm proud of myself. And when I reach the end of the street and see her car, I stop to let her pass.

**I really hate pointless, never-ending angst. **

**Some of you are still with me. I love you guys. It's been a while since I sent an EPOV, but if you want one, let me know. **

**thanks so much for reading.**

**mwah **


	17. Chapter 17

**if you're still out there, thanks so much for checking this out. **

**and thanks to my lovelies, writeontime & ciaobella27. and thanks to denverpopcorn. i'm building a shrine to your...**

**I don't own Twilight.**

I make it all the way down the next street before I realize that I can't drive back to Seattle. I let out an internal whimper. It's just in my head, not out loud, but I'm here, whimpering, and wishing I could go back. I can. I can turn around, and Mom will be there, and she won't force me to talk, although sometimes I wish she did. And I can't imagine myself volunteering information, telling her how I feel and how much I hurt. Pride is a stupid thing, especially when the person sitting across from you is a parent. But just like Mom never let me see her cry, except for that one time, I don't want her to have to sit there and count my tears. There have already been so many of them. And I don't think they'll stop tonight.

Of course she calls exactly ten minutes after I've left the house. Am I okay? Yes. She hesitates. Okay. But before I hang up she tells me to turn around and pick her up. She can be ready in five minutes. She'll come with me, she'll cook, she'll go shopping. It will be fun for her. She gives up when I insist that I'll be fine, but before we hang up she tells me again not to care about that stupid boy. I think she meant to say "cry" instead.

"Sure, Mom. I'm just going to forget all about him."

"You _should_. It won't be hard if you immerse yourself in your new life. He's your past. Your new job in a new city is your future," she tells me.

"Okay."

"Bella, listen to me. Of course it seems like the pain won't ever go away..."

"Okay. Mom... I'm driving. I can't have this conversation now."

"Listen," she says. "You made a mistake—"

"Oh God..." I know this isn't over, so I pull over and park my car on a nearly empty street.

"Just this once. Listen to me."

"I'm listening. I pulled over."

There's a pause, and then:

"I only want what's best for you. Yes, you've heard that a thousand times and this isn't ABC Family or a Lifetime movie, but it's true. I'm your mom, and I only want you to be happy. That's all that matters to me. Why do you think I let you go off and be on your own after your father left? After you and Edward had your falling out? I wanted you here, I didn't want to be alone, but I also didn't want to be selfish and make you miserable, too. If I had known you'd come back just to fall back in love with _him_... Bella, I thought you were done. You've surrounded yourself with all these wonderful people... You could do so much better..."

"You love him. You love Rosalie. They're your neighbors. You practically raised him. Why are you acting like he's not good enough?" I shout.

"I didn't say that. I love Edward, but... I thought you'd grown up... You're both different people now."

"_No_. I mean, yes, but even now there's something about him. You know how people always talk about 'The One' and the love of their life? Mom, I _know_. If something like that exists, it's him. But, like, I know that even if he is, he's married. And even if he leaves her, he'll eventually lie to me and cheat on me. What's the point?"

I'm red everywhere. Ashamed. I don't want to say that out loud. The suggestion that someone would cheat on me. That I'd be _that_ woman, or wife. I could never acknowledge the possibility.

"Why do you think that?" she asks.

"The obvious—'once a cheater...' And even if he had never cheated before... These things don't work. People don't just stay together."

"Many do."

"Yeah. People like Edward and Rosalie. Even though he's cheated on her _so_ many times. They'll grow old together. I'd rather be alone."

"You're not going to be alone."

"I know I'm not, but I'm going have to settle for second best. And that's if I'm lucky."

"Bella," Mom starts, and I can hear the sighs and the exhaustion. "Be smart and grown up for a minute. Is he really that special? To you, I mean. Think before you answer, and let go of your emotions for just one minute."

"Wasn't Dad? For you? Mommy, you never once went out with someone else."

"And where did that get me? Don't be like me. If you don't think you could be together, that Edward can be faithful, why... Don't be like me. There's more than one person for everyone."

"I won't. I know. That's why I'm not going to give him another chance. I'm not going to marry him and be Rose. I'm not going to let him leave me."

"Oh, Bella, he'd never leave you," she says. Mom is full of contradictions. Don't be like me, there's someone else out there, he's not that special... And now this. Or maybe she's just honest. She has thoughts, feelings, things she believes, and she'll say them.

_Her downfall._

"He loves you," she continues, "but he's a coward. He has no backbone. So if you made a choice today, you need to stick to it. You don't know how many times I decided to end my marriage. I was ready, I told Dad I was ready, but I waited too long. It would've been easier if it had been me."

"You just said Edward would never leave me," I remind her.

"But he'd drag you along to the sad, lonely place where he exists. I told you, Bella. Listen to me, and Tanya..."

"I know I did the right thing, Mom. I'm just saying it hurts."

"But it'll get better."

"They're all the same. This is why..." I stop, too nervous to say things I think about all the time. To express _my_ beliefs. Let people know just how cynical I am. "This is why I can't date. I mean, I can date. I can be _so_ casual. Like, that's all I can be. But Dad did it, and Edward, and I just don't trust them. They're incapable. I can't."

"Men?"

"Yes." And because I'm composed and the tears I was so worried about have dried up, I'm about to continue explaining to her why I can't believe in forever, or respect anyone else's vows of forever. But she's laughing.

"I don't know why you think that's funny," I snap. "Because of you, and the fights, and Dad's bullshit, I can't even trust... I don't believe in anything."

"Well grow up, Bella. Our relationship didn't work out. So what? Live your own life. Edward and Rosalie were never compatible, even they know that. Your Dad and I had a bad marriage... it happens. We had you. We had a bunch of happy years. You need to grow up and live your own life."

She makes me so angry. She acts like it's so easy. When it's her fault. Her fault. And his. And _his_.

"Wow, okay. This isn't how I thought this conversation would go, but okay. I'll 'grow up' and never tell you how I feel again."

She mutters a "Jesus Christ" because I frustrate her, and she's used to me keeping quiet.

"Sweetheart, I'm just saying that you need to let go. I'm sorry it caused you so much pain. I wish I hadn't started all those fights when you were around. I wish your Dad had waited another year so you didn't have to be here for all of that. But please, neither one of us wants you to live like this. Forget us."

"How would you know? He doesn't care. He has no idea..."

"If he did he'd tell you what I'm telling you," she says. "Let it go."

My cheeks are wetter than they were back at the house, when I was waiting for Edward to leave. I know it's no use. She doesn't know what she did. What they did. What Edward did. They think their actions, their decisions only concerned them. That they had no effect on me. Like I didn't hear, see, everything they did, or feel everything they felt. Mom's pain was mine after Dad left. Dad's impatience, the way he'd just given up... I understood it so well. I tried, I tried to make her understand, too, but she didn't. She was always up for another fight, another argument. I lived every second of it. My days are still full of it, full of them. And of Edward. Mom, Dad, Edward. Their pain. Their decisions.

And my nights... I still hear them sometimes. When I can't sleep, it's their voices I hear. Mom and Dad. Low, then high. Then higher. Louder. The rhythm, like a song, stuck in my head. I don't even recognize words anymore. Just the up and down of their voices. They'll never leave me.

"Bella?"

"You're right," I tell her. "It's in the past. It has nothing to do with me."

"Sweet girl, are you going to be okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Edward..."

"If he hasn't left her yet..." I choke on that sentence.

"So stupid," she says.

"You think he should _leave _Rosalie?"

"After all of this? Of course! I know how you feel about her, but she's a good person. Kind, devoted to her family. He needs to let her go..."

My blood is boiling. I hate her so much. Not the present her as much as the shallow, uninteresting junior who ran into Edward in the cereal aisle that summer. Kind. Devoted. Good. When did all of that happen?

And why is my mother so clueless? Please, please be on my side. I'm your kid. I'm still a kid. Hate her with me. Tell me I'm right. Let me cry. Tell me it's okay to cry. About Rosalie. For you. For Dad. Listen, Mom. Understand.

"He's a selfish man," she starts again, after a pause.

"Mom, listen, I want to talk, but I need to get back on the road." My voice is sweet and light, because I have given up. She'll never get it. "It's going to be _so _late by the time I get back."

She makes me promise to call her the minute I'm in my apartment. And that we'll talk again. I don't know. Maybe we will. I'm still shocked that this conversation happened today. I just need to hang up now, because she knows so much, and I can't let her take any more secrets out of me.

XxXxX

We talk every day. Sometimes long. Sometimes super short. It's like she knows when I have things to say, so she presses, just a little, and if nothing comes out she moves on, and if I bite, she makes sure not to let me go.

It's been four days. I work all the time. I have no idea what I'm doing. Always convinced they're going to fire me. The other associates seem so confident. They stand up taller. They never mumble or stutter. I just don't want to mess up. And the partners are always barking at us, or the more senior associates, or each other. I'm the first of the new associates to receive a compliment, but it's for something so silly and insignificant that I'm convinced I'm being mocked.

Would I be talking to Edward about this? Would he listen politely and tell me it'll all be okay, or would he just give me a "yeah" or "uh huh" until I stopped whining? I think he'd listen. He listened to everything I told him about the bar. He listened and used words and formed sentences and reassured me and he was curious and his face lifted or dropped depending on what I said.

This just makes me sad. I found my best friend, but only for a minute.

These are things I don't say to my mother. I don't bring him up. But today, she does.

"...And I didn't want to say anything, but..."

"About what?"

"I ran into Karen Newton yesterday, and she told me Edward is staying with his parents."

Her voice is higher than it normally is, and she is trying to keep it calm and even. Like what she's telling me isn't a big deal.

"That doesn't mean anything," I snap. Defensive. Why, I'm not sure.

"I didn't say it did."

"Rosalie stays with her mom all the time."

"And Edward stays at the house," she points out.

"Did Mrs. Newton say why?"

"She thinks Rose kicked him out."

Rose kicked him out.

_Rose_.

Because why would he voluntarily leave? Why would he make that choice?

"I'm surprised you don't have firsthand info, Mom. Since you guys are so close."

Her voice is hard when she responds. "I haven't seen or spoken with Rosalie since before you left."

"Are you avoiding her?"

"I'm not _avoiding_ her, Bella, but I'd rather not run into her right now."

I'm not that selfish. I think about this a lot. About Mom, and her life next door to Edward and Rosalie.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I put you in this really awkward situation."

We talk over each other. Apologies and assurances. Shifting the blame. Edward shouldn't have. Edward had responsibilities. A wife. But, who cares? I feel no guilt. Not yet. I know it will come. But right now it's just pain, pain, pain. And missing him. And all the aches my heart can handle before it takes a deep breath and gives up. Because it still has some hope. And when that's gone and I can finally say I lost, maybe then I'll feel some guilt for breaking up a marriage. But that's assuming it's broken. And why feel guilty if it's not? I think about the bitterness I'll feel then. All the love and lies and secrets and surrender of dignity and pride for nothing. Everything just goes on like before. Empty and lifeless for them. I wasn't worth getting rid of a dead, stale thing. I wasn't even worth that much.

XxXxX

There's no better feeling.

That stupid exam is behind me. It's like it never happened, except it did, and I'll never have to face it again.

So I celebrate with everyone else. New colleagues. An old friend.

Everyone back in Chicago and New York is still waiting. Their states are slower. And bigger. They'll know soon enough. They're happy for me. It gives them hope, because they knew what I was going through. How distracted I was. How my mind was on a man, and his wife, and the house right next to mine, and the comings and goings and every noise, every sound. And I managed to pass, so they think they've got it in the bag.

If _Bella_ passed...

October is normally such a useless month, until that very last day, but not this year. I had been waiting and waiting. What if... What if I was forced to go through that all over again? And with the knowledge that I had failed the first time. That I hadn't been good enough. What if I had to sit down and make my way through all those flashcards. And outlines. Answer those multiple choice questions again. But without the soft arms and eyes and voice of my favorite person next to me, or a shout or text away.

"So, are we doing it?" he asks. The beer is cold in my hands. Bitter down my throat. I nod, swallowing, pulling my hair back because it's hot in here, and my neck is sweaty. Heat, excitement, promises and plans.

"Definitely," I confirm. "I like it here. I'll stay at the firm for another year or so, but ultimately..."

"Having a second bar is always a good idea."

"Definitely." Nodding, taking another sip, blushing because he's looking down my shirt as he's helping me with my hair. The black hair tie I usually have around my wrist was on the table, and then in his hand.

I smile, and he looks pleased with himself. I'm warming up to... something. Him? The idea? Neither one of us knows yet. But he's standing a little taller. Chest out. Just a little.

"I bought the books..." Oh, he's in charge. "We'll make copies for you."

"Craigslist?" I ask.

"Yeah, BarBri. Got them for next to nothing."

"Excellent. Stupid Maggie and Liz returned their stuff. For a _refund_. I would have given them the $250."

"Not to mention, they don't know whether or not they've passed yet. Everyone knows you wait, and then when you find out you've passed you sell them to people taking it in February."

"Everyone knows Maggie and Liz are idiots." I put my beer on the table. Flip my ponytail. "Surprising, though. Liz is always trying to make some money where she can."

"We're all guilty of that," he says. Always kind, even when people aren't present.

"Little white lie... I'm using my old address, since Maggie still lives there. I'm not taking it in Albany."

"I'm using my stepmother's."

"So, Javits it is, then."

"Are you staying with Maggie?" he inquires.

"Hotel."

"Yeah, same."

"Near Javits?"

"Probably not. Who'd want to stay up there?"

"I think I want to stay somewhere super fun and luxurious," I confess with a bad, bad smile.

"Are we there to party? Or take the bar exam? The second _hardest _bar in the country..."

"Well, we'll be partying right after. And I want big pillows and nice robes and comfort before the scary test."

"I think we can come up with somewhere good."

"Yeah..." The "we" didn't make me blush this time.

"And we'll need more than cheap beer to celebrate when that's over," he says.

"Yeah, how lame is this beer?"

"What do you want?"

"Champagne?" I giggle. "Or is that lame? It's just _Washington_."

"It's a pretty big deal, Bella."

"I have some at my apartment," I tell him.

"So let me just settle the tab?"

It's a question, because that wasn't exactly an invitation, but I nod. Let him settle it. I reach for my wallet, but I'm deliberately slow.

"I've got it," he says, before my fingers touch leather. And he's off.

What am I doing?

I'm doing nothing.

He's just a friend. Just a friend. Just a friend who really, really likes me. A friend who touches, and whose hands always linger, eyes always on me. On all the places friends don't get to access.

Shoulders.

Throat.

Knees.

Mouth. Mostly mouth. He probably remembers the kisses from last summer. They were good, until I was reminded that kisses are supposed to blow you away. Reach every part of you. Take away your ability to breathe, think, know.

But they were good. And maybe I deserve a kiss. Maybe if I get a few I won't wake up to damp pillowcases and that second where everything hits you again. It's morning. The dreams, good or bad, were not real. Real doesn't include Edward.

XxXxX

My hair is twisted up. Ears, neck, everything exposed. My skin says, "go for it, do it." It's moisturized, and I ran into my room to dab just that little bit of perfume. Too obvious? It's supposed to be. I've said "no" so many times. I've ducked, turned, backed away. He remembers, and even if I gave him some hope, some encouragement earlier, he's probably not going to try unless I make it obvious.

So, perfume.

Eyes on him. Never on my phone. Or the door. Or that place over people's shoulders where my memories of Edward seem to hang out. Distracting me, calling me, reminding me that there's something so much better.

A hand on his knee. Yeah, _my_ hand. I haven't flirted like this in forever.

Or, just a few months. I laugh.

"So, what was her name? Katie? Did you guys go out again?" I ask him.

"Date number three." He holds three fingers up, shaking his head.

"And you like her..."

"I think so." Gulp. He's nervous. Should he like her? Or should he like me?

"She's super cute," I tell him. Nodding, encouraging.

"She's alright." A shrug. Not good enough. Make this more difficult. Make it a challenge.

I cross one leg over the other.

"So, is she your _girlfriend_?" I tease.

"Girlfriend? No..." He clears his throat. Smiles. "I wouldn't be here if that were the case."

I look away. Down. Innocent. Now I look up. Round eyes. What does he _mean_?

"You're over him, right?" he asks me. Bold and direct. I like it. "That's done."

"Don't bring that up." I look away again, like I'm blushing and don't want him to see. "That whole thing was so embarrassing. I can't believe I told you. _So_ not worth telling."

My heart falls. Shuts down. It has given up on me. I'm a traitor. It's done with me.

"I didn't mean to... Don't be embarrassed." He reaches up to cup my cheek, caress it.

"I..." I have nothing to say, but he thinks I just can't find the words to express whatever feelings he thinks I might have. I see the sympathy in his eyes. He strokes my cheek with his thumb.

"Hey, it's over. I feel like you've moved on. You're a happier person," he says. "I'm glad... I'm glad you've figured things out. I'm..."

He's glad I'm flirting and throwing myself at him before he's in too deep with Katie. I know him. He wouldn't be okay with this after a fourth, fifth date. He's that guy, the guy who goes in, wants everything, settles down, cares and loves and does the right thing.

So when he kisses me, I let him. And I lie back on the couch, and make sure there's room for him to be comfortable between my legs. Five minutes into it I feel sad. So sad. And there will be no avoiding those damp pillowcases. The tears will follow me to the shower in the morning. I'll have to swallow them back at work. But this guilt, like Liam has been good, and deserves this, so here, take it, it's all I have and I've never had a problem giving it away since the boy I loved decided he didn't want it... The guilt decides for me. I let it go on because of it. And because I know it's safe. There won't be sex. Hands won't wander too much. And tomorrow I'll say things went too fast, and he'll agree. And he won't go back to Katie, and he'll still be friends with me. But I'll have what I wanted. I already do: now I know.

I know that days, weeks, and months won't be enough. No warmth is warm enough. No mouth is soft enough. I feel things, but there are no feelings. I move, but only because I can't play dead.

And he doesn't notice, even though I'm under him and it's me he's kissing and whispering to, even though he's one of the good guys. Good or bad, they never notice. Edward didn't notice when we were kids. And our time together as adults wasn't long enough for me to learn whether or not he'd notice now.

**this story will be complete within the next few weeks. even sooner, I hope. **

**your support has always meant everything to me, so if you're still around, please say 'hi', send a review, scold me for failing to update. whatever.**

**thanks so much. mwah.**


	18. Chapter 18

**You guys... I'm SO happy that you're still around, and that you read the last chapter. Hearing from you... it was the best feeling. **

**This is pretty short, but I'll be updating a lot this week. **

**Thanks to my beta, Writeontime.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

He says he's proud of me. That gives me the kind of satisfaction, the kind of thrill that nothing else can. And I immediately feel guilty, because Mom says those words every day. She calls, she sends emails to remind me, when I'm having a particularly hard day. But when she does it I feel nothing. Sometimes it even annoys me. No thrill. No loud thumping in my chest. Proud of me._ Proud _of me. He tells people he's proud of me. The daughter he raised. The one he supported, even when she wasn't answering his calls. Even when she had nothing but harsh words, if there were words at all.

When he calls, I hang on to his every word. When he doesn't, I act like it would have been a bother if he did. When he asks, I'm vague in my response, cool and a little distant, never eager. When he doesn't, I'm not surprised, and when I realize I'm not it makes me sad.

"At first I thought it was a bad idea for you to stay in Forks all summer, but I knew you could do it. I never doubted you for a minute."

"It really wasn't a big deal. And I'm pretty sure I passed by, like, _nothing_."

"Doesn't matter as long as you passed," he says.

"I know. Anyway, I'm taking New York in February."

"You thinking about going back?"

"Not right this second, but I want to have the option," I explain.

"I was surprised when you decided to leave. Always thought you wanted to stay out there."

"I wanted to be close to Mom." But then quickly... "Plus, you know, it was a pretty decent offer, and the market hasn't been great..."

"Your mother's doing just fine. Focus on your future. If you find better opportunities someplace else, you should take them."

Selfish. I don't remember when that happened, but he went from a good, decent family man to straight up selfish. Making decisions for himself. No longer considering anyone else's feelings. But what does that even mean? _Good, decent family man?_ I know nothing about my father and who he was and how he felt before he left Mom. He was just there. Agitated. Impatient. Frustrated. But, still, a good man. Maybe you can be all of those things. But selfish? If you love, if you care, is it even possible to care more about _yourself_?

"You should come up to the cabin sometime," he tells me during the awkward pause that usually precedes our goodbyes.

"Definitely." He never invites me. I would never go. "I'm pretty busy with work, but when things settle down..."

"It's just me up here these days."

No third parties to endure. I can do that.

"Oh. Well, I'd love to come. I'll call you, and maybe next month...?"

"Sounds good," he says. "If you want to bring a friend along, there's, uh, room, you know? I don't want you sitting around bored..."

I smile, because nothing made him more nervous, especially when I was getting a little older, than being around me when Mom was out and I had nowhere to be.

"Dad, I'm not a kid anymore. I can entertain myself."

"Just wanted to say it would be fine by me if you wanted to bring a friend."

"Are you asking me if I'm dating someone?" I laugh.

"No! Why would I ask you that?" he almost mumbles.

"I don't know. Never mind. It will probably just be me."

Of course I take this as an opportunity to think about Edward, and construct a complex and vivid daydream where I ask him to come with me, because I wouldn't know how to spend an entire weekend with my father on my own. Edward loves the cabin, so he's excited to go back, looking forward to spending a day or two by the creek we used to splash around in when we were kids. Dad always liked him, so their handshake turns into a hug, and Edward is perfect. He is polite, respectful, but if Dad says anything even remotely negative about Mom, he defends her. Quiet, eyes down, but his words are enough. And I'm calm because he's there with me. And when I do get angry, because of _course _I get angry, I argue with Edward until I'm calm again. And I know it's childish, and wrong, because I'm not mad at _him_, but with him I can be that small, selfish person, and he lets me. He doesn't love it, but he accepts it, just like I have always accepted his weaknesses.

But mostly, I see us in perfect fall clothes, so similar we almost look ridiculous. His hair perfect in the wind, and just like some of the leaves hanging or falling around us. Or will they be gone by November?

Now Dad's not even there. Just the two of us walking around and talking and sitting by a fireplace that doesn't exist. What are we talking about? What do we ever talk about? Has it ever mattered? If he's saying it, I will always be willing to listen.

XxXxX

There were some things I couldn't face without Edward. When I knew my parents were fighting, I'd beg him to come hang out with me. His presence would force them to be quiet, and even if their voices still found their way into my room, he would be there to tell stories, and show scabs and bruises, and make me listen to a new song, and later he would kiss me until the only sounds I heard were the loud, crazy beating of my heart, low pants, a smack here and there, and his breathing. How could I hear or know anything else when his cheek was against my cheek during those few seconds between the longest kisses? When his face was in my neck?

Imagine waking up to that face every morning. I've imagined it so many times. Even then, I'd think about it, and it was so ridiculous, because we were kids, and things like sleeping next to a boy, waking up with bad breath, initiating _things_, would freak me out. But I imagined, and daydreamed, and thought about him all the time.

He really was in every thought. He _was_ every thought. I stopped thinking about anything else. When I lost him, and later when Dad left, I couldn't help but wonder if it was my obsession with Edward that kept me so preoccupied that I forgot to focus on my parents, and interfere, and make sure they remembered who they were, and how they had to be together, and how much they loved each other.

How stupid. You can't control these things. Love comes and goes. People change their minds. Everyone is different, even if the patterns seem similar, sometimes even identical.

In a book, or a movie, Edward would have come to me. Either right after I left, or a few weeks later, and despite my anger and frustration, and the things I believe, the things I think I know about men and their patterns, I would take him back. No hesitation. Because it's him.

And because I still live in a fantasy world no one would ever guess I inhabit, I wait for him. Every unexpected noise. Every door that opens. Every tall man wearing something Edward would wear. But all I get is a text. And I'm being honest when I say I wasn't expecting it, because I stopped expecting phone calls or texts weeks ago. After all this time, I thought it would be a grand gesture. It would be something big, and meaningful. Something I could convince myself was enough to let go of the past and allow him be a part of the life I'm making here.

But a text?

I bet you're wondering what he said, and how it made me feel.

Yes, my heart skipped the beat it was supposed to skip.

Yes, it started beating so loudly I thought my ears, my head would burst.

Yes, my fingers trembled and I almost dropped my phone.

Yes, I read it over at least a half dozen times.

_I heard the good news. Congratulations, you deserve it. _

He used punctuation and capitals and probably changed his mind about what to write at least a dozen times.

I love him so much. This morning, when I woke up, my chest was hollow again, and I remembered everything again, and I ached all over. It always feels so familiar. No different from how I woke up every morning those last few months of high school.

Right now, it's impossible to hesitate. It's impossible to pretend to be over him, or pretend this text is another congratulatory note I can toss aside with all the others. Even if it is, I know this boy, this man, and I realize he needs a push now and then. And I've never wanted to push. I've always wanted him to make the declaration, make me feel special and change my life with his words. But the man I love is a man of few words. Words he has already said. They can be enough. I can let go of my pride for a few seconds. And if he doesn't bite, if he doesn't do exactly what he needs to do, I'll know. And I swear, I promise, I'll be done with him.

My fingers are still trembling.

_Thank you. I miss you. A lot._

__**I'll update soon. Let me know your thoughts. Finishing this story is making me so nervous and crazy!**

**Oh, and some awesome person recommended this story for Fic of the Week over at TLS. It's a great site, go check it out!**

**Thanks so so much!**

**mwah**


	19. Chapter 19

**I'm always super impatient to post, and my lovely beta is reading a book she shouldn't have to put down to take a look at my chapter for me, so all the typos and mistakes are mine. **

**I don't own Twilight.**

_Can I call you?_

I'm off the couch and on my feet.

I take a deep breath. Twist my hair up and then let it fall, because I have nothing to keep it up with. Tuck strands behind my ears. Shake it all out and let them escape, because I want to hide behind my hair like I did when I was a kid. When my face was fuller and I didn't want to look younger than I was. I feel younger now than I have ever been before.

Wait. Wait. Wait. A few seconds, that's all. Not minutes. No pretending that I'm not dying to hear his voice. No pretending I'm busy. No more games with this man. No more half-truths. No more hiding.

And if he wants nothing from me, that's fine. I've been there. I know how it feels. I've survived it.

So I let him know he can. It takes seconds before I'm saying "hi", my voice clear and strong. Braver than I've ever been. Braver than he'll ever be.

"Hey, give me a second?"

"Sure."

I sit and wait. Loud steps, and a door closes.

"Hi."

"Hello." I try not to giggle. The pounding of my heart. His voice. He reminds me of how young we are. I feel like a kid, waiting until my friend can talk. I'm already hugging my knee to my chest, resting my chin on it.

"I thought I was alone in the house, but Mom just walked into the kitchen", he tells me.

"How's that going?"

"Pretty good."

"Like you never left, right?"

"Yeah," he laughs. "She still orders me around, but the minute I get up to do something, she shoos me away."

"She never trusted you around her dishes."

"See? I never understood why. I broke dishes in my own kitchen all the time, and it was no big deal. But now that I see Mom's stuff I realize it's _nice_."

"Yeah, your parents have really nice stuff."

"Makes me want to stay here until they kick me out," he jokes. I hope.

"Why not? I miss all the pampering. Mom spoiled me so much this past summer."

"Bella, congratulations."

"You said that already," I remind him.

"I know, but now I'm _really_ saying it."

"Thank you."

"Did you do anything to celebrate?"

"Yes, I went out with some friends."

"Sounds fun."

"It was... But we didn't get to stay out too late because we had to _work_ the next morning."

"How's work?" Edward asks.

"It's good. It's... not as difficult as I had expected it to be, but it's also not as exciting. The people are nice, but not actually _nice. _Whatever. What about you? New school year..."

"It's... Yeah, I don't know. I guess it's been interesting."

I "hmmm" or "mmhmm" until he has to speak before an awkward silence reminds us of the things we've done and who we are.

"You haven't been to Forks since..."

"No, but my Mom keeps me..."

"So she's the one who told you I'm staying with...?"

"Yeah, that Rose kicked you out."

"Your Mom said that?" he asks. He's still quiet and calm, but there's something there, like he's ready to go on the defensive, and maybe, if he's pushed enough, he'll have some strong words to say.

"Yes."

"Is that what Rose told her?"

"I don't think it was Rose."

"It doesn't matter," he says. "Listen, let me tell you what happened."

"Yeah, that would be nice."

But I don't think he hears me. He's already telling a story, and I have to catch up _and _listen to the rest.

"...she wanted to talk about what it meant. What was I supposed to tell her? It meant... You know what it meant."

I don't, but I do. I think it meant everything. But he hasn't stopped to make sure we're on the same page. He's talking, and I'm thinking too much to focus on his words.

"...I think she wanted me to apologize and... you know, tell her it would never happen again. I'm not saying she'd forgive me that easily, but that's what she wanted to hear."

"I thought you told me she knew, and you denied it..."

He sighs, groans.

"I did. But, Bella, that day you left, I couldn't go home like that. When I finally did... She's not stupid. She was seething. I'd never seen anyone that angry."

I try to imagine what it was like. Was he sad? Had he been crying? Was he angry and red? Did she know her husband had just told me he loved me, he wanted me, he wanted to leave her and be with me?

"She was shouting things," he continues, "asking me to tell her the truth... 'I know, I know everything!' So, I said if you know, why are you asking me?"

I don't care about the details. I don't need a play-by-play. I'm impatient, and want to get to the end.

"That's just how it goes, Edward. People want to _hear_ it, to confirm what they already know. It's not real until you hear it."

"Anyway, I apologized. It only made her angrier. She kept saying I didn't mean it. Of course I did. Why would I want to hurt her like that? I love her. We grew up together, you know?"

"I thought _we _grew up together."

Everything is so tense now. My body, rigid. My face, wet. I hate him so much for how free his words are. How he gets to say what he wants, and I have to hear it.

"We did," he says. So fast, he's almost breathless. "It's different."

My words come out slowly. Like I'm finding each one in a dictionary, putting them together, measuring them, considering, weighing, knowing I won't be able to erase them once they're out.

"If you love her so much, why aren't you with her? Does she not want you to come back?"

"I don't want to go back. It's over."

"But she had to kick you out for it to be over."

"No. That's what I was getting to," he snaps. "She started shouting out a bunch of ultimatums. We're moving into her mom's house. I have to make up my mind about kids before she can make a decision about our future. She sounded crazy, but it was my fault. Anyway... when she got tired and calmed down I told her I needed to leave. She thought I was coming after you, to Seattle. She told me if I left, it was over."

"Yeah, no shit!"

He laughs, and it makes me breathe more normally, and I laugh, too. There's something different about his speech, about the way he's telling this story. The hyper, overexcited kid who'd call me ten times a day is back home, and I can see him pacing up and down the length of his room, scratching his head and then using that same hand to tell me more of the story, because his voice and words aren't enough. It's Edward, before that first kiss happened and everything went quiet.

"Edward, just..."

"Okay, sorry. I'll... I explained that I was going to be staying with my parents, and we fought for a while. She said I was embarrassing her, how could I do this to her?"

"So you said it was okay for her to tell everyone she kicked you out? How is that less embarrassing? She needs a legit reason... otherwise everyone will just assume you cheated."

"Yeah, go tell _her _that."

We're finally there, where it's quiet and no one is speaking. I hear things moving around, sometimes I hear the louder breaths he takes, or the ones he lets out. He mumbles a "one sec" and he's drinking something. I hear the gulps and imagine what it looks like. Edward drinking water. Or whatever it is. His mouth, his throat, his hands. The electricity that runs through me makes me crazy. I'm about to be honest and stupid, but he's the stupidest. "Bella, I miss you," he whispers, like saying it any louder would upset me. Or maybe he knows what his whisper sounds like, and how lightheaded it can make me feel.

"Yeah?" It's a word, or a breath I take.

"I wanna come see you."

The sex in his voice. Maybe he's smarter than I would have ever guessed. Maybe he's known what he was doing all along. Be smart. Don't let him change the subject. Take control.

"And what?" I ask. "I thought it would make a difference, knowing you left, or whatever, on your own, but it doesn't."

"Yes it does."

"So, if you left her, why didn't you tell me?"

"I wasn't gonna come to you before it was over. You told me..."

"We were already sleeping together," I argue. "Don't feed me the, 'I wanted to do things right' bullshit."

"But it's not bullshit. Listen, I'm not going to ask you to come to Forks, but let me see you. Talking on the phone... _this _is bullshit."

"You'll come here?"

"Sure. Just tell me when. Preferably, a weekend, since I can't really take time off from work."

"Let me think about it," I tell him. But I already know.

XxXxX

When I think about Edward, the most overwhelming feeling that takes over is an unfocused regret. This longing for something, hating myself for whatever I did or didn't do. It's about everything, and nothing at all. I don't like it, because it's impossible to reason yourself out of that mood. It doesn't have a target, so it's all over the place. Easy to get lost in.

It reminds me of a certain kind of nostalgia. The kind that goes from lazy, half-sad smiles, to bitter thoughts or melancholy in a matter of seconds. So maybe it's not nostalgia, because I associate that with wanting, needing to go back. This... I'm not so sure.

I've been falling into that space a lot this week. We came to an unspoken understanding that we wouldn't resume old habits like calling each other every day. Still, I wait. And the simplest text is like air, after holding your breath underwater for too long. I'd know how that feels, because Edward used to time me.

XxXxX

No one wants to hang out at a coffee shop after a long drive. I don't want to be going through menus and picking at salads while we talk. And he fits in my apartment. Just like the low armchair with the externalized frame mom thought was too expensive and unwelcoming. I disagreed.

I wear black tights, the kind you can't see through. I wear a black dress, the kind with long sleeves and a high neck, giving an illusion of modesty, even though it's skintight and impossibly short. My hair is a mess of braids and a bun. Confusing for a boy, if he cares enough to notice.

No shoes. It's my home, and I'm comfortable here. And I like sliding down the hallway in my tights, laughing when I have to hold my hands out in front of me before I hit the wall. My toes always end up hurting, though. I always forget about them.

He's late, but he called to tell me about the traffic. I have coffee ready, because he drinks it. I made some tea, because coffee is a morning thing. There's work spread out on the coffee table, and the sweater Liam forgot on my couch is in the bottom drawer in my room.

I try to sit and focus on the work I brought home, but time actually slows down, and I end up clearing the table and putting everything in one big pile. It's not neat enough, so I work on that, and the sound of the doorbell ringing irritates me, because I'm not done, and I prefer huge messes to having one or two pieces of paper out of place.

So I take my time, cursing my decision to start something when I knew he'd be here any minute. It doesn't take more more than thirty seconds to finish up and make my way to the door, and maybe this distraction was a good thing, because I'm not nervous when I open it. Just in a hurry, annoyed, and sucking on the side of my thumb, where a nasty sting surprises me and lets me know I have a paper cut.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

I shake my head, but he's yanking my finger out of my mouth, and his cold hands feel unpleasant against my skin. I haven't been outside all day. It can't be that cold in October.

He kisses it, and it's such a surreal moment, almost like I'm dreaming it, making everything up in my head. I let my other fingers move down his face, over his nose and onto his lips, which try to catch them all and offer them small kisses. His hand catches mine as I'm letting go, bringing it to his mouth one more time before our fingers hold onto each other and swing by our sides. He's inside, and the door closes, and my back is against the wall. He's tall and strong, and just looking at him tells me I can't escape. Not because it's impossible, but because if I have to be a prisoner, this is the body that should fence me in.

He presses his lips against my mouth, and they move and move, and the sting of his past choices disappears as quickly as the sting in my thumb. He's not even touching me. His hands are on the wall, like they're holding him up over me, and I have to reach up and wrap my hands around his neck, pull on his hair to bring him closer. His arms drop, and I'm being lifted, forced to cling to him with my legs, and his hands find my butt and squeeze and hold and move. They claim. They caress.

My feet are touching the floor, and he's standing over me again, one forearm against the wall, supporting him. He's smiling, he's closer, he's kissing my hair, one of my braids. My temple, my forehead, my mouth right before I'm about to speak.

"I think I'm feeling dizzy," he says. I giggle and grab. Pull him in for a kiss.

His mouth is warm. The way he's kissing me today, it's almost as if with every kiss he's breathing me in. He's making me not care about anything else. Why he's here, and what he has to say... Who cares? His lips are soft. Down my cheek, and along my jaw, and when they reach my throat my knees tremble, and I'm too heavy for my own body. I reach up and grab his shoulders, touch him, run my hands everywhere, hold him and pray that he doesn't screw this up. Because this isn't something everyone gets to have. And if they do, but let it get away, they probably don't get a second chance. Definitely not a third.

"Do you have some water? Or..."

I want to stab him for being thirsty right now.

"Flat or sparkling?" I breathe against his neck.

"Really?" His hand is gripping my hip, moving up and down my side, then gripping again.

"I was only kidding, but I'm pretty sure I have some San Pellegrino if you're into that."

"No, thanks."

He presses me against the wall, holding me there with his body, kissing and breathing and kissing.

"No fair! You can't grind against me like that and then tell me to bring you water."

He keeps doing it, panting in my ear at the same time about being thirsty and needing water to keep kissing me.

I tell him he knows where the kitchen is, and a few more kisses later, he's on his way. I watch him, and after he puts down his empty glass, I run up and throw myself onto his back.

I'm not ready to talk just yet.

**See? I told you! Frequent updates! **

**Thanks so much for reading, guys. Things are super quiet these days, so I'll probably be able to send some extras with review replies. **

**You guys are the best!**

**mwah**


	20. Chapter 20

**Thank you, Nina. You're the best beta and friend anyone could ever ever hope for. I love you.**

**And thanks to everyone who's reading this. It means the world to me that you are.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

It's like I'm stealing. The stuff I want is here, in front of me, and I know someone is about to walk in, someone's about to catch me. I have to gather up everything in sight, try to hold it all against me, in my arms. And I can't drop anything, lose anything, as I run out.

Every kiss on his neck. Hungry kisses, with strength and force and my _everything _behind them. I love his skin. I want to taste his skin. It's exactly the same as it's always been: all _him_ and salt and softness. This has always been mine. This has never been temporary. Forever is in his skin. It's in every touch of my mouth to his cheeks. In every touch of my fingers to his arms, his back. That back that carried me so many times. Skin and bones. Then muscle and heat. When I press my fingers against it, everything feels okay. My feet are on the ground and the ground is safe. But I'm flying because I'm nothing. Weightless. Light. Air. The joy I'm getting from pressing my fingers like this... the satisfaction. Nothing, nothing is better.

"So, you missed me?" He laughs into my hair.

"Do you want more water? Are you done?" I ask.

"Give me a minute. I just walked in!"

"I can't."

"I'm just going to pour myself another glass, and we can take it with us."

"Take it where?"

The kiss he gives me is loud and gets so deep that I'm almost uncomfortable being here, wearing clothes, not having him against and inside me.

Edward tries to pick me up. I'm being half-dragged down the hallway, so I make him stop and pick me up for real, and a second later I'm being dropped on my bed, where I had a pile of clothes waiting to be put away just a half hour ago. If I hadn't thought about this, if I hadn't expected it, I wouldn't have bothered to stuff them into drawers without properly folding anything.

He waits, on his knees, for me to take off my tights. Instead of doing that, I put my feet on his shoulders, then try to bring him closer with my legs around his neck. He falls onto the bed, on his stomach, and his face is between my thighs, and his mouth is kissing me over tights, over whatever I'm wearing under them, and this is hot.

Crazy hot. He's eating me out and I'm not even naked. I'm going to come and it's going to be so good. So much better than Liam. I mean, _so _much better. Like you could _ever_ compare them.

And I come, selfish and eager. I let him push and kiss and nudge and breathe until it happens. I hit that peak and enjoy every second of the warmth and blush and the small tremors and the lazy, stupid calm that takes over. And then I see his pink face, with this thing like... like hope. Eyes the roundest they've ever been. What is he doing? What isn't he saying? Does he love me as much as I love him?

Maybe it's possible, and he does. And that makes me a jerk.

I smile and close my legs and settle on my side, inviting him to join me. He's kissing me again, holding me in the fiercest, greatest hug.

"What?" I ask him.

"I can tell you everything, right?"

"Yes."

"No matter how stupid it sounds?"

"The stupider the better."

Hearts racing. Big, blind, in-love eyes. We probably look identical right now. He looks just like I feel.

"I miss how you sound," he says.

"Like, when I come?"

"Well, yeah, but when we weren't speaking, I missed the way you'd tell me stories. The way your voice goes up and down."

"Do you want me to tell you a story?"

He rolls us over. I look down at his face.

"Okay," I start. "There was this girl, right? Wait, I have to whisper this part..." I cup my hands around his ear and blow first, loving how it makes him squirm, giggle. "She really, really liked her friend.

"One day, he kissed her, and did really dirty things, and she fell in love... with his _mouth_."

"Just his mouth?"

"And his..."

He rolls his eyes. "Get to the part where she falls in love with him."

"She always, always, _always_ loved him."

"Still?"

"Yes," I say. I'm running my fingers through his hair. Feeling and acting so tender. Like my heart and his heart are being held in glass, or they're made of glass, and if I'm not the sweetest, the best, and if I don't look at him just like I'm looking at him now, with love, love, love, then the glass will shatter. My heart will be in pieces. His heart will be in pieces. And not like they're broken, like other hearts that break all the time, but gone.

I can't believe that an hour ago I was nervous. Nervous about seeing him again, having some sort of talk with him. And now I'm thinking... A _talk_? A _discussion_? Is that what we are now? People who have to weigh things, analyze feelings, and pretend they're adults who can come to some sort of understanding or conclusion?

"Your turn to tell me a story," I tell him.

He's taking off his sweater. I almost don't want him to, because he looks great in navy, but when it's off I see how messy his hair got, and how tattered his t-shirt is. Grey. And he looks so good in grey. And his arms look stronger than I remembered them. There's something different. A good different, that takes me back.

"You've lost some weight."

"Yeah. I've been working out. Mom and Dad went through a health craze and bought all this exercise equipment."

"You look really good," I tell him, and his eyes brighten. "You kind of look like a kid."

"I'm no kid." He's on top of me, kissing my face and trying to access my neck, but my dress makes it impossible.

"What are you...What the... Take this off."

I forget how difficult it is to yank it off, and my head gets stuck. I pull and pull, and my hair is a mess. I'm on my bed, with him, and he's staring, mouth half-open, chest moving up and down, like he's terrified. Or maybe, like he's never seen this before.

How many more times until he's used to me half-naked? Until he doesn't watch as I take things off?

I reach behind me to take off my bra. Let him remember this. Good or bad, this weekend is happening. Good or bad, there will be memories. If my dreams aren't going to come true, and we're not going to be doing this for a long, long time, I hope the picture he's taking in his head right now—me, topless in black tights and crazy hair—makes him ache.

"Nice, huh?" I wink.

"Lemme touch."

He reaches up, but I grab his hands before he gets me. My fingers go between his, and we sit like this for a few until he frees them and brings his arms around my waist. He holds me. I don't need stories or words. I need his magic.

I tease him a lot, rub up against him, bring my chest down to his mouth and then escape. He's not even trying to touch me. He's lying back, happy, enjoying my silliness, big, deep lines around his half-closed eyes, head thrown back, laughing.

Sometimes I can't believe this. Me, and Edward. We have sex. He's seen me naked. I'm naked now, and we're acting like it's normal. This? _This_ is normal?

I laugh and cover my face with my hands.

"What?"

"I'm, like, bouncing on top of you, half-naked, no bra on. It's... weird."

"It's awesome."

"We've done this before, so why does this feel different?" I ask him.

"It _is _different."

"How?"

"Well, for starters, it's nothing like last summer." He runs his hands up and down the front of my thighs. I shiver.

"No?"

His mouth opens a few times, and he's thinking. So I wait, and while I wait I take his hands into mine again. I draw invisible things on them, write invisible words.

"It's just us this time."

I nod. He kisses my hands. Fingers and palms.

"And we're adults," I say. "This isn't two kids experimenting. We're not hiding from your parents, or anyone."

"I think we _should_ experiment."

I giggle. "Never change, Edward."

We kiss for a few. His hands finally creep up and find what he wanted. He squeezes, fondles. Forgets how sensitive my nipples can be.

"Ow."

"Sorry, I get carried away." Big grin. All is forgiven, but instead of more squeezes and twists he puts his hands on my hips and stares at me.

"Tell me what you're thinking," I whine.

"Hmm... I'm thinking I can't believe this is happening. I'm staring at my best friend's boobs and trying to remain calm."

"Aw, I'm still your best friend?"

"I hope so," he says.

"Let's be best friends again."

"Sure, but please don't put your shirt back on."

Laughing, we do the romantic roll-around kisses that look so much easier on television.

"Sometimes I swear I think we're seniors and when I kiss you I see _him_. You were so cute. I always knew you were, so I don't know why I wasn't kissing you from, like, the second you became taller than me."

"I wanted to kiss you all the time. Every time we hung out, I had to hide a boner. Probably even before you knew what they were."

I reach down and grab.

"It's still there!"

"I told you. I'm still the horny seventeen-year-old obsessed with his best friend."

"Me too," I tell him.

He shakes his head back and forth a few times, the stupidest of smiles on his really handsome face. "You're nothing like her."

"Like... Rosalie?"

"No. Like your seventeen-year-old self."

"How am I different?" I ask.

"You've grown up. A _lot_. Your mannerisms are different. You're definitely more confident."

"Yeah..." No, I'm not.

"It's probably because you went out and saw the world and met people. I know the same people we knew together when we were sixteen. I'm exactly the same person I was back then."

"I don't know about that..." But maybe he's right. He's still quiet for the most part, pensive, sort of a loner, but the kind people really seem to like to have around. Is that why he ended up where he was at the beginning of last summer?

"Now what are _you _thinking about?" he asks me.

"Do you like the new me? The one you think is so different from teenage me?"

"I fell in love with her."

I hit him in the chest, and then keep my hand there. I have this sudden urge to feel his heartbeat.

"Keep talking..."

"The way I feel about you now makes what I felt before you left look like a crush," he explains, his hands on my face. "Nothing compares to how you make me feel now."

I feel calmer than I've ever felt in his presence. It's... strange.

"Can I ask you a question?"

I nod, noticing how he went from wide eyes and pink cheeks to guarded and closed off in a matter of seconds.

"Do you want to be with me?"

"You've asked me that before," I remind him. "Why do you think you're here today?"

"I'm not talking about _here_. I'm talking about the future."

"I don't know, Edward. You tell _me _about the future."

A blank stare is all I get.

"What's happening right now?" I ask him, soft and sweet. "It's the one thing we haven't talked about yet. Who's doing what?"

"You mean the divorce?"

"Yes."

"She hasn't filed anything yet. I've been waiting for her to do it. My parents think it's the right thing to do, given the circumstances."

"Do you see her? Talk to her?"

"No," he says.

"So you haven't talked about it..."

"Twice, right after I first left, and then nothing. I'm gonna have to do it. I thought I'd give her until Thanksgiving, let her divorce me, but if she doesn't, then what?"

"Then it's Thanksgiving, and then it's the holidays, and you don't want to ruin Christmas, so before you know it, it's spring! And—"

"Come on, stop. I swear..."

Before I realize what I'm doing, I grab one of my pillows and hold it against my chest. I know what it looks like. I'm angry, I'm shutting him out. This isn't what I want, but it's how I react to things.

"Please don't divorce your wife on my account."

"Please stop acting like a bitch every time I try to have an honest conversation with you."

"Start _doing_ things. Driving to Seattle to fuck me isn't doing something."

He hugs me, with the stupid pillow between us, and tries to distract me with hands going up and down my back, and though I don't make him stop, I'm definitely not forgetting this.

"You won't let me tell you anything without attacking me or starting a fight."

"You led me to believe it was over," I explain. "I don't want you here if it's not over."

"Of course it's over."

"You're exactly where you were when I left, except now you're living with your parents."

"I was trying to do the right thing. I cheated on her. I broke her heart already, I didn't want to be the one—"

I push him away and now he's hugging the pillow.

"For once, just _once_, do the right thing for _me._"

"You won't even tell me what you want!" he shouts.

What do I want? I've said it a thousand times. You, you, you. Just be with me. The details don't matter. Stop asking me questions. Let's just see where this goes. You're here, still married, and you're asking me what _I _want? And if I tell you, are you going to jump into a new relationship with me? I can't take any more rejection from you. Hold me this weekend and we'll see what happens. Let me hear your voice throughout the week and come back soon.

And fucking end it with your wife, already. That's one thing I'm not going to repeat. You know now how I feel about it. Leave her and be with me. It's not too much to ask, but it's everything. It's probably not very smart, either, because you should be "finding yourself" and not becoming involved with someone so soon.

But you were involved with me even before you met her. And you say sweet things and make me love you more. I'm obsessed with you. I need you so much. I hooked up with another man and felt dirty for the first time in my life, and you know I've done some filthy things. I slept with a married man (that would be you), and I slept with many men you don't know about. Some of them weren't available to me. None of them made me feel disgusting. But when I was with Liam I felt sick. Because I love you in a way I couldn't love anyone at seventeen, not even you. I can't do the things I used to do and come out with a clear conscience. Something about you makes me think, "Forever? Maybe..." Just you. There is absolutely nothing else for me.

So I have to be brave. I have to say what I didn't say when saying it would have been normal, and not stupid. I have to be honest. I can't explain without using words. No vague descriptions of what our ideal relationship would be like.

Make it simple. Make it real.

"I don't know." I sigh and make sure it's loud and dramatic.

This topless thing isn't working for me anymore. I cross my arms against my chest and kneel in front of him, taking the pillow from his lap. He looks up and I shrug. It's an apology, because I have no idea what I'm going to say, and that's never good.

"I want to be your girlfriend. We can keep it very casual. We don't have to 'date' until your divorce is finalized."

"Girlfriend?" he raises his eyebrows.

"If you want to call it something, yes. I mean, what are my options? Lover is too ugly, I don't want to be your lover."

We're not rolling around, sharing bites and kisses and sweet words. He doesn't look happy. He's not excited.

I lie back and stare at the ceiling.

"Hey, Bella?"

"Hmmm."

He moves closer to me and kisses my shoulder. I can't stop the kisses I end up placing on his forehead, in his hair.

"We could just hang out," I tell him, before he says anything. "But we can't keep having this conversation."

"What happened to being my girlfriend?"

"I don't think you're really into that idea."

"It's not what I was expecting," he says.

"Edward."

He kisses my shoulder again.

"If you're not going to talk, you need to stop that," I tell him.

"How many boyfriends have you had?"

"I don't know... Actual boyfriends? Not too many. I don't really date much."

"I think 'date' sounds stupid. You hate 'lover', but I think it's a good word."

"No. There's no commitment in 'lover' and I want commitment."

You don't get to look at anyone else the way you're looking at me right now.

"I thought you didn't believe in marriage," he says.

"I don't believe in vows, or pieces of paper that tell me our union is recognized. But I want to spend a lot of time with you, like, all of my time. And I want people to know."

"Do you want kids?"

"Yes."

"But you won't get married?"

"This is all very premature," I tell him. "I  
>didn't say that. If it would make you happy, I'd do it. If we're going to involve kids, I'll probably do it. I just don't understand why you care about it as much as you do, considering how you broke your vows and decided to end your marriage."<p>

"You're always going to remind me of how badly I fucked up."

He still hates these conversations. He doesn't like being called a cheater. I don't enjoy calling him one. I don't want him to be one ever again.

"Are you going to fuck up with me?"

"I've been fucking up with you for twenty years. That's done."

"I'll probably never really trust you," I admit.

"I know."

"Not because of what we did while you were married. I just don't really believe in... I'm pretty cynical."

He moves on top of me and starts kissing my neck, and I know he's done talking.

"So, we're done talking about this..." I try to confirm.

"I remember a time when this would have shut you up." The stupid sparkle in his eyes and that annoying grin are the best things in the world.

I let him love me like he's always loved me. With touches. With skin against skin. Warm breath on my face and neck, and the rhythm we found when we were seventeen. It's the slow, intense kind of love. And it makes my heart race like nothing else.

I hold him until he comes inside me. Reckless and stupid, like it's always been. And then I kiss him for a long, long time.

XxXxX

I try not to focus on the fact that we never finished that conversation, or started a new one. Spending time with him this weekend was amazing. We did things. We watched tv, we got drunk, we kissed a lot, and all that other stuff.

When I remember how he kissed me goodbye at least seven times outside his car, or how we watched movies in each other's arms and fell asleep like that on the couch, the butterflies in my stomach go crazy, because I'm so happy that I'm nervous. And I'm already anticipating next weekend, because he promised he'd keep driving to Seattle, or wait in Forks. Whatever I want.

My bed is a mess of sheets and comforter, and pillows where my feet are supposed to go. It's still early, but I want to finish my work here. It's a stupid idea, because all I do is hug my pillows until I find the one that I think he must have used the most. I bury my face in it and let out a ridiculous squeal, kicking my legs in the air. This is the excitement I should have felt the first time he kissed me. Not sadness, anxiety, or confusion. But I don't let that destroy my mood. I sniff the pillow again, and finally sit up to get to work.

He calls about an hour after he left.

"I suck at this," he tells me.

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't know how to do this... boyfriend-girlfriend thing."

"I'm pretty bad at it myself," I assure him.

"I've never done it before. I married the only girl I dated, and that was high school stuff."

"I remember, Edward. Thanks."

He starts to apologize, but I laugh and remind him to stop worrying. I'm going to stop being so sensitive all the time.

"Just... be yourself." It's the cheesiest thing I've ever said. "I think you've been doing a pretty good job so far."

"Alright, so I won't be calling you until you leave me a few angry texts."

"I can't make you call me if you don't want to."

"I was _kidding_, Bella."

"Stop kidding around and keep your eyes on the road," I tell him.

"Alright. I'll talk to you later. Tonight, maybe?"

Those _butterflies_...

"Sure. I love you."

"Love you."

I get the noisiest phone kiss before he hangs up. It's pretty terrible, but also adorable, and I'm covering my hot face with the pillow. If I hold it any tighter for any longer, I'll probably suffocate.

**You guys are awfully patient. Or just really polite. Please, please share your thoughts on this chapter which was almost impossible to finish. I hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, let me know, because I'm paranoid/crazy.**

**Thanks so so so so much**

**x**


	21. Chapter 21

**Yes. It took me 8 months. Work was insaaaaaane. I'll update every other day until I'm done. Thanks for hanging around if you're still here.**

"You should kiss me before your mom gets back from the store."

I continued to wash the glass I had in my hands. I had to play hard to get, because he had ignored me in the cafeteria when I kicked his foot under the table.

"Are you mad or something?" he asked.

I shrugged, and finally put the glass down to dry. He nudged me with an elbow in my side, so I made a face. Disgust, to hide all the want.

"We don't have to do it. We can just chill."

"Whatever."

"What's gotten into you?" He laughed. "Be nice to me. Rose is always nice to me."

"Go do it with her, then."

He was red and silent and his eyes fell to the floor, where they stayed until I spoke again.

"I don't care about Rose. Just because she's your girlfriend doesn't mean I want to talk about her."

"Fine, we won't talk about Rose," he promised me.

So a minute later when he reached out to hold my hand I let him. We didn't do it that afternoon, but I let him touch me. And we kissed. A lot.

XxXxX

He's here every weekend. He's here while I work. He's here while I prepare a few simple meals to get me through the week. He's here during my morning workouts, which I only seem to have time for on Saturdays and, if I'm not too lazy, Sundays. He's here for all the minutes we get to share in between errands and work commitments and drinks with friends. He's here for the kisses and our bed and for naps on the couch, under the best throw he's ever felt, like, ever, and I think maybe I should buy another one for him to have back home in Forks, but I like knowing he loves something only I can give him. So, if everything else becomes boring and bland maybe he'll still come for his naps.

The fifth weekend he stays in Forks. He spent Thursday and Friday moving everything he owns out of the house, so he's too tired to make the long drive to Seattle. He'll do it, he tells me, but not until Saturday afternoon. He needs some rest. But Saturday afternoon to Sunday afternoon isn't long enough. Would it be worth it? Probably not, he tells me, and I agree. We can't be like bratty children who always want more. But that's exactly what I want, so I remind him that I can drive, too. So should I drive to Forks? Sure. _Sure_. Okay, sure. That sounds almost reluctant. Noncommittal. Sure, drive to Forks. Sure, why not? Sure, but we'll see each other next week anyway. And how clingy am I? _Very_ clingy, Bella. Of course it's not Edward saying that, it's me.

So, fine, I am acting clingy and desperate, but I want so much more than "sure" right now.

And instead of telling him to stay in Forks I want to say, "Come for the throw. You're tired and worn out and need to rest. Rest here, on my brand new bed. Not under the covers, because according to you that's only for nighttime sleep. So on top of the covers. With the perfect throw covering you. You can wrap yourself up. Hide your face. Fetal position, which used to freak me out when we were teenagers, but which I now understand. You crave comfort. I'll sit here and be quiet. Then I'll get bored and start making some noise. I'll be subtle, but you'll know. Then we'll share the throw. Hide our faces. Breathe in and out."

But I tell him it's no big deal. I have plenty of things to do today. I love you. Love you too. Squishy kiss sounds, and he hangs up.

XxXxX

My phone is ringing again, just minutes after the conversation that threw me into the depression that forced my feet into sneakers because I need need need cookies and milk and hard candy that will make my teeth hurt. Last time I actually thought about my teeth (brushing and flossing don't count) I was kissing Edward, and thinking about how sometimes we get carried away and knock our teeth against each other and then stop and laugh, if I have it my way, or continue like it's normal and okay and the best, which is how he wants it. He notices no imperfections, no mistakes.

"Were you serious about driving up?" are the first words out of his mouth.

"Yes."

"There's this place in La Push, called Oceanside Resort? I've heard good things... it's right by the water. We can get a nice room for... Why don't you check out their site?"

"What is it?"

"Google it. Look at the rooms and rates."

"Why would we have to stay there? I can stay at my house, and..."

"Privacy," he explains. "It'll be nice to get away."

"To La Push?"

"Where do you want us to stay? You want to come over and stay in my room? Or should I show up at your mom's with a change of clothes for tomorrow?"

"Okay, relax," I tell him. "No need to get like that... You're right. Give me a sec, I'll check it out..."

I scan the available rooms and rates and think maybe this will be fun. I can be there this afternoon, and there are hot tubs and fireplaces in the rooms. We can be silly and have fun. I'll bring the throw as a surprise.

"Okay," I say. "I'll book one of the luxury one-bedrooms for tonight."

"There's cheaper rooms."

"Yeah, but what's the fun in that?"

"I don't know... Fine, whatever you want," he says.

He keeps talking, but I'm not listening, because there is nothing more exciting than booking a room I'm going to be staying in, and I'm making sure it's got everything we need and entering my credit card number and planning on what to take and what to wear and reminding myself to leave my hair down...

He's asking me something. I think it's, like, the third time. My immediate reaction is to try to brush off his question. And then a second later, my heart sinks. It hits me: he's worried about money, and the big room I booked without considering how this affects him, and he's telling me not to do anything, because he'll go down and take care of things in person.

"Ugh, I suck," I tell him. "I get really excited about these things and booked us a room. I'm sorry. This one's on me because I'm an impatient brat who—"

And another argument begins. He's the most stubborn person I know. And too proud. As if he needs to be like that with me. So I promise I'll let him pay me back, and I make a mental note to kiss every inch of his face because he makes my heart swell and ache in ways I didn't know were possible even when he owned every bit of that same heart so many years ago.

I'm ridiculous. Yes, I tell myself.

I'm in so deep.

"Ughhhh," I cry into my hands. He asks me what's wrong, so I tell him. He's pleased. He needs to hear it constantly. I love him. I love him. I love him.

XxXxX

"Why are we talking about this again?" Edward asks me, his hands holding down the hat he's wearing on the windy beach.

"Because we were talking about spending a week with Dad up at the cabin."

I'm glad I'm wearing a hoodie. I tighten it around my face and laugh at how much he's struggling. He finally gives up and shoves his hat inside his jacket, which he then zips up all the way to the top.

"I thought we agreed we're going," he says.

"We did. Don't try to distract me. Tell me what happened."

He spits out some sand that flew into his face. "Fucking... Disgusting... Anyway, yeah. He was a piece of shit. Before his family moved to Spokane, he'd been a little rough with Rose."

"Rough? Like... physically?" I ask.

"Yeah. Nothing major enough for anyone to notice, and she was too scared to say anything to her mom—"

"He, like, _hit_ her?"

"I don't think so... He pushed her around. She's never said anything, but I got the impression he was emotionally abusive, too."

"Wow."

"Yeah." He continues, "It had gotten pretty bad the summer we got together. She broke up with him, like, a few days before we started hanging out. He'd been threatening her. She told me later that she thought she saw him in the parking lot right before she ran into me."

"Poor kid. I had no idea..."

Edward nods. I run my hand up his arm and grab it, pulling him closer to me. I'm fascinated with the story he's telling. An unwelcome shiver runs through me thinking about her, just a kid, being treated that way by her boyfriend. I know my face is ugly right now, because I'm thinking about how much I dislike feeling bad for her. And because I want to make things better for her, but I've only made her life shittier. Abusive boyfriend. Cheating boyfriend. Cheating husband. If I had known, would I have done things differently? I won't answer that, because it's nothing anyone wants to hear.

"So that night you asked me to come over... That was the worst timing, Bella."

"I'm sorry my dad didn't decide to leave us at a more convenient time for you, Edward."

"Shut up," he snaps, shaking his head. Like I'm unbelievable. "Listen. So there was some party happening that night. Rose and I were supposed to meet up, but before I got there, she texted me that Royce was back."

"I remember that. The next day at school people were talking about Royce showing up at the party. I assumed it was the same one you were going to when I asked you to come over..."

"It was. Rose was freaking out, so I knew what I had to do."

"You did the right thing," I manage to say. Except, no. He was supposed to come over and comfort me that night. My best friend. My everything. Dad had told Mom terrible things over the phone, and then he had come home, gone up to their room, and the next thing I knew, Mom was shouting and he was walking past her, then closing the front door. And I can't remember seeing him in the house ever again. I'm sure he was back a few times. But that's the last time I remember seeing him on the stairs, in the hall. That was it.

XxXxX

There are so many words just everywhere tonight. It's like we decided to come here and speak them on semi-neutral territory. Not exactly Forks. Not my apartment in Seattle.

"Stop being so hard on yourself. It was a shitty situation," I sigh, hoping he stops being emo and starts being playful and naked and excited to hang in the hot tub. Things were quiet after our walk on the beach. I held him a lot when we got back. Tried to snuggle and kiss all the pain away, and he did the same for me.

"I got myself into that shitty situation."

"So what? You did the right thing," I tell him. "I mean, if it had been me... and if you hadn't wanted to stay with me and have a baby together, I would have been heartbroken."

"The right thing? Look at where I am today. Look at Rose. Her life could've been so much better. My life could have been different. I could have been with you."

"You stayed with the person who needed you. You took care of your mistake. You were brave. And I'm here now. We're _together_, right now. Some people would think, 'Hey, it really worked out for me. I'm a lucky motherfucker!', but you can't see that. I don't get it."

"I married the wrong person, Bella. And then I stayed with her for years. If you hadn't come back last summer, I would have stayed with her, period. That's..._ crazy._"

"You're doing it again. I get it, you married her and she'll always be important, but, seriously, are you ever going to stop telling me about how your wife was the saint you had to let go of because I came back? It's, like, we're going to be sitting around with our grandchildren and you're going to go, 'Kids, before I met Grandma I was married to St. Rosalie. She was swell, but then Grandma came home one summer...' This is ridiculous. I'm going into the hot tub right now. Don't come in unless you want to make out. Like, no talking. Making out _only._"

Of course, I'm not in the mood to make out with Edward when he joins me, even though he listened, and he's kissing my shoulder and moving up, along my neck, stopping by my ear...

"Uch."

"What? I'm sorry," he says.

Why does he have the roundest eyes when he's apologizing?

"I'll stop talking about her. I only talk about her because you're Bella, and you're everything. I trust you, and I want your advice, and I need your help."

My help. There are many thoughts going through my head as I try to formulate a response.

"I feel... threatened. Like I did back then. She just came in and took you away. I don't want to hear about her," I explain.

"She's not gonna disappear. I'll still have to deal with her, even when the divorce is finalized."

Which means I do, too. I don't like it. I'll never stop being jealous of her. Jealous of her height and weight and hair when she was sixteen, and jealous of everything she's learned about him over the years. Jealous, despite everything Edward told me about her today. The fact is, she knows him in ways I won't know him unless he leaves Forks and moves in with me. And even then, I won't know the Edward who looked at her and gave up his life, his everything for her and their baby, or the Edward who took college classes he couldn't afford and forced himself to graduate. Edward in his early twenties. Edward the young husband. So young. Too young. I missed it all. She helped create this man who's here with me right now. This screw up who left her for me. His pretty wife, for the girl he swears he never forgot. But he's so much more than that. I want the world to see. He's good. He's so good. He always was. Even when he hurt me the most he only did it to help someone who needed him more. And I want to remind him. And let him believe in his goodness again. Maybe if he believes, things will be easier. If he believes that he's good, and that he's the same boy I grew up with and loved so much, maybe he'll forget the crutch he used for years. Forget she ever existed.

It's sick, and pretty crazy, but that's all I want. I want him to forget she ever existed.

XxXxX

There's no such thing as a perfect love. In my experience, the best moments happen when you're with the man whose name you can't share with anyone, because doing so would bring pain and shame and embarrassment to too many people. All other moments are ordinary, and not worthy of being called romantic or beautiful or significant. Ordinary is boring, and predictable. I like secrets. I do. If I didn't, Edward and I would never have happened. Not in high school. Not now. But _this_ isn't just about the thrill of the forbidden, and I think that's why I'm not fucking my boyfriend right now in ways he'd never, ever forget. I'm sad. So I just lie here, my eyes closed, trying to put everything together in my head.

How long until Mom invites us over for dinner? Or his parents. When do I get to be part of that again? How long until they're divorced. How long until we're living together. How long until kids and a house. (How long until no one remembers the ugly parts?) It probably doesn't matter, because I know what happens next. Boredom and frustration and real life. Things that kill the magic (if the magic even existed anywhere outside your own head). And then I'd hate him for killing it. Or blame myself for the inability to sustain it. And our kids would wonder, "What happened to Mom and Dad?", and I really, really don't want them to spend a second of their lives worrying about me.

I hate La Push. This room—the secret square box he's hiding me inside. The plans we're making for the next three weekends. Seattle. The cabin. The ever-present question of when do I get to go back home, to Forks. Mom already told me she wants to go away for Thanksgiving. Like the cliche I am, I toss and turn. But at least when I hit something, it's soft. It's him. And I love it.

**if you guys are still interested, I'm planning on completing this in, like, 2 weeks, max. let me know, because if no one cares... why bother? Thanks for reading. miss you guys. hi. when i'm done with this i promise FLUFF. **

**mwah**


	22. Chapter 22

**you guys are the best. thanks so much for reading and for leaving me your thoughts.**

**this is unedited. and i don't own twilight.**

I was a big daydreamer. Sometimes I would force myself to come up with different scenarios in my head, and I'd make slight modifications until I got everything just right, and then I'd allow myself to get lost in them. And sometimes I'd even bring back my favorites to replay in my head because they were just so good.

Obviously, a lot of these daydreams involved Edward. There was the ultimate, perfect dream of us becoming a real couple. Boyfriend-girlfriend. This obviously included a "scene" where our parents would find out. Mom and Dad were together, of course, and there was no talk of separation or divorce, but even in my perfect dream they weren't the couple I always wanted them to be. Just two adults who had realized that they'd committed to something, and the right thing to do was to stick it out, because, after all, they did love each other. They just forgot sometimes.

I never delved into the nitty-gritty of how Edward dumped his girlfriend, or why. But I can tell you that he was single when he came over, and it was a sunny day, and no one was home. He kissed me, and I let him keep kissing me, because that's what we did. And then he told me. He poured his heart out. This conversation was the best conversation. I could never decide, though, whether or not I wanted to play hard to get. In some versions, I made sure he knew what he was doing, and that he wouldn't go back to Rosalie. Sometimes, I even asked for some time to consider it. But in my favorite version Edward said the words I wanted to hear, and I embraced him, and we kissed, and he told me, "You're so beautiful," over and over again. Not just the "You're hot" he mumbled a few times that bright, cold morning in New York.

So we were a couple. And the daydreams would really take off from there. We'd meet to "study", but all we did was make out and touch each other. I couldn't fantasize about sex when I was out in public, because my face would be a dead giveaway. Everyone would know my thoughts. But at night, alone in my room, I made him do so many things. All these things I wanted him to try, or just try again, but was too shy to ask for. I think his shoulders were maybe a little broader, and my hair was a little shinier, and there were was no trace of acne anywhere on our faces, but everything felt so real.

I think next time he's here, I'll ask if I starred in any of his fantasies. All I want to do is make them all come true.

XxXxX

This conversation is going well, considering the one we had last night. I mean, how did he think I was going to react to the news that his soon to be ex-mother-in-law invited his family over for Thanksgiving dinner, and Esme said she'd think about it?

First of all, when you know your son wants a divorce, and doesn't want to go back to his wife, why would you put him in such an awkward position? How little respect do his parents have for him?

Number two: does Esme think Edward and Rosalie still have a shot at getting back together? She knows about me. What happened to the warmth and loved she showed me last summer? I don't buy the whole "It would be rude to turn her down" bullshit.

Why doesn't Edward talk to me about his parents? About how they're handling the divorce, and what they think about us? I'm an adult. I can take it. I'd rather know, than to foolishly expect them to welcome me into their lives with open arms.

"Bella, so?"

"Huh?"

"Should I enter? Think it's worth a shot? It's decent money."

"The furniture thing! Yes, I think you should," I tell him.

"Are you busy?"

"No... sorry. Just thinking."

"Cool," he says. "So, if I enter, I need to spend a couple weekends up here, to work."

"Oh, yeah. Of course."

"Maybe you could come up..."

"Um... sure." We talked about this in La Push. He wants me there. He doesn't want me to hide.

"Baby..." I hate that. I love it. I love, love, love it. "I can tell you're busy."

"I'm _not_!" I cry out, sounding whinier than I intended. "It's just... I can't stop thinking about you guys having dinner with Rose and her mom."

"It's not going to happen. Fuck, if they want to go, they can go. I'm not spending another holiday at that house."

"That's not the point. I mean, do your parents hate me?"

"No, of course not. Mom is a little traditional," he explains. "The word 'divorce' turns her into a crazy person. She knows I'm doing the right thing, but sometimes she thinks maybe there's a chance... I swear, she loves you. I promise, once all this is over, everything's going to be okay. You're part of my life now. You _are_ my life."

"Keep saying things like that because I swear it's all I want to hear."

He laughs, and I close my eyes to see his face, and smile, and the neck I want to taste, and the hair I want to grab.

"I love you."

"How much?" I ask him.

"Really? You're gonna make me do this?"

"Yeah..."

"'Alright, let me put you on speaker. I need both arms."

I want. And I'm giggling so hard when he says, "This much."

"What? I didn't hear you!" I shout.

"This much!" he tells me, again.

"But I can't see!"

"Bella..."

"Okay, okay. That sounds like a lot."

"You're crazy," he tells me.

"Just when it comes to you. And us. Edward, I really, really want to watch you work and make things."

I want to watch his hands. His forearms. His face. Determined and confident.

"I don't know about that... I start early in the morning, way before you get out of bed."

"That's not gonna happen if I keep you in bed."

"Yeah, sure. I could go, work, take a shower, come back to bed, and you wouldn't know." He laughs.

"Would you stay in my room?" I whisper.

"At your mom's?"

"Yeah..."

"Yeah, if she's cool with it."

"I'll talk to her about it. I'm sure she will be."

And if she's not, we'll sneak around. Edward likes this idea. So do I. It's very "us", and it's so much more fun than sanctioned sleepovers.

XxXxX

"I know you're not a fan of pie like I am..."

"Ha. Ha." I rolled my eyes. He was standing in front of my locker, and when I tried to open it, he blocked me.

"What? You hate pie," he continued. "Apple pie, pecan pie, cherry pie, pumpkin..."

"What do you want, Edward? I need my books for the bio assignment."

Rosalie was standing a few feet away from us, waiting for him so they could drive home together.

"Mom wants you to come for dessert Thursday night," he finally said.

"Maybe. I'll ask my parents."

"Please." I knew from the way he looked at me, the intensity of his gaze and the color in his cheeks that I was the only one invited for dessert. Carlisle and Esme would sit around with the grandparents, and we'd go off to "hang out", and he'd kiss me again, and again, and again.

"We'll see," I said.

"Call me and let me know? I gotta go now."

I never got a chance to call him. An hour later he was in our living room, asking Mom if I could go. It was drizzling, so I didn't walk him back to his car, but right outside our door, after making sure Mom wasn't paying attention to us, he grabbed my hands, fingers in fingers, palms against palms, and told me he couldn't wait, and gave me the slowest, more burning kiss of my young, stupid life.

XxXxX

"So, I'm really sorry I forgot to book anything and we're stuck here, but... look! I decorated!"

I found a pumpkin on my way home. It's sitting on the table now.

"I can see that," Mom says. "Nice job, nice job."

"Thank you!" I take a small bow, and she laughs.

"Are you feeling any better, sweetie?"

"I'm fine," I tell her. "I think all the insane dieting almost killed me. I really can't be around boys all the time. Everyone at work orders all this food. I tell myself I'll be good over the weekend, but Edward eats so much!"

Mom smiles. She's looking around, probably to find something to clean, or put away.

"You've always dealt with stress that way. Some chocolate here, a slice of cake there..."

"Ugh, I know! And I _am_ super stressed," I admit.

"Is it work, honey?"

"Work, stuff..."

"Have you and Edward been arguing?" she asks.

"No... not since La Push. Ugh, what a waste of a weekend. I mean, it was fine, but every other minute he managed to say something to annoy me. I know he didn't mean to, but... I finally got him in the hot tub, but we were barely in there for two seconds before we started talking about Rosalie again... Ugh."

"Well, it's not always going to be pretty. He's still married, and..."

"Mommy, please," I beg. "Not today. Like, not this weekend. I know. Believe me, I know."

"Where is he spending the holiday?"

"At home. You know, Rose's mom invited the Cullens over for dinner tomorrow night. They're not going, but when he first told me, I wanted to strangle him and Esme. She was actually considering it."

"Bella, they've been family for years. Of course she was."

"Their children are getting a divorce," I remind her. "It's just... awkward. I don't know why I can't let this go. I feel like I'll be holding this against Esme forever."

"Well, they're not going... They must have turned her down."

"I know, I know."

"Bella, you need to relax," Mom tells me. "Esme is a good woman. These things take time."

"I can totally see my future. Rosalie and her mom haunting us forever."

Laughing, Mom finally spots something to fix. I forgot the duster on the bookcase. She walks over to retrieve it, and touches up a few spots before asking me where it goes.

"I'll take it, thanks."

Mom follows me into the kitchen, and finally takes a seat at the counter. I watch her start to peel an orange, and the smell is so strong. Like some sort of floor cleaner. Is she really eating the fruit I left on the table? That's just supposed to sit there until it goes bad. Or until Edward decides to have it for his first breakfast. I'm annoyed, but I don't want to start anything.

"Edward got his job at the school through Rose after he was hurt on a construction site in PA," Mom starts. "Rose's mom helped them out a lot while he was recovering. He went through some rough times, and even if he forgot everything she did for him, Esme certainly hasn't."

Construction site. Recovery.

"See? I didn't know about any of that. It's like, there's this whole part of his life I know nothing about. I wasn't around for any of this. Everyone helped him, but me. All I've managed to do is destroy his marriage."

"Stop being dramatic. That's entirely his fault."

I want to believe her. I actually kind of do believe her. But we're past that. I'm trying to focus on the future, right? And right now, it's a little uncertain. And I'm kind of scared.

"Have you considered talking to someone about all this?" she asks me, popping a piece of the orange into her mouth.

"Like... a professional?"

Stay calm. Don't start anything.

"Don't look at me like that. I think you have a lot on your mind, and you're under a lot of stress. It can't hurt to have someone else to talk to."

"I'm fine," I insist.

"No one said you're not."

"Did you ever talk to someone?"

"No."

"Maybe you should have," I snap.

I don't want to stop there, but I do. Probably because I know she wasn't trying to be mean. Also because I know we're stuck together all weekend, and I want it to go well.

"Okay. You're in one of your moods. All I'm saying is, it's not a bad idea. I probably should have considered therapy back then, but don't make my same mistakes. If you're feeling down and feeling stressed, maybe someone can help."

"Mom..."

"Maybe if a professional tells you to stop thinking about the past, you'll actually listen."

"I'm not thinking about the past! I'm freaking out over the future!" I cry.

She's laughing now, and I want to join her, or just scream.

"Crazy girl, everything's going to be alright. Edward or no Edward, you're going to be fine. Stay focused on your career—"

"Stay focused on my career, don't get pregnant, never depend on a man. I know, I know."

We're laughing together now.

"Oh, Bella. Yes. I'm not ready to be a grandmother."

"Oh, come on. You'd love it," I tease. "A little baby that looks just like me and Edward?"

"You're scaring me."

"I'm just saying."

"Is it something you're thinking about?" She asks.

"No!"

"I don't think you two are ready for it."

"Of course not. I just started working at the firm, and he's not divorced, and he needs a real job."

"He has a real job."

"He hates it," I tell her. "He wants to move out here and find something else."

"And if he doesn't?"

"We'll figure it out, Mom. Oh my God! You were just laughing at me for freaking out about the future. Relax. This is so not something we need to be talking about right now."

She nods, and we start getting ready to go head out and pick up some groceries for tomorrow. I text Edward about the crazy conversation, leaving some of it out, of course, and he responds with a smiley face. Typical Edward, right? No words when I really need them.

XxXxX

_sorry. was busy earlier. u ok?_

Instead of texting back, I call him.

He answers. "Hey."

"Did my texts freak you out?" I laugh.

"Are you trying to tell me you're pregnant?"

"No! I'm not! I'm not."

"It would be fine if you were," he says. "I mean, really bad timing, but..."

"But?"

"But, I guess..."

"Yeah?" Go on!

"It's gonna happen eventually," he tells me. "We've talked about that."

"Yeah, way in the future. And, like, in _theory_."

"What does that even mean? You either have kids, or you don't." We laugh, and he continues, "You know I don't want to be an old dad."

"Just give me a couple of years, okay?" I smile. Because there's always going to be something very cute and very hot and just... adorable about a man who talks about being a dad. Who talks about having kids with you.

"Take all the time you want. Call me when you're ready. And on that note... I need to sleep if I want to be up by six."

He sends me a kiss after we hang up. I kiss the screen and hug my phone to my chest.

I mean... I can't lie. The idea thrills me. Me. Edward. A family. I'm not going to pretend I didn't imagine being married to Edward back when we were kids. I had the lamest, most embarrassing fantasies.

There was always a wedding.

I couldn't care less about that now.

I'd dream of walking down the aisle, and he'd be standing here, and Dad would be with me, and Edward and I would have a big house to move into after the wedding.

Now, I just want him. Here. Always here. No trips to see him. No waiting to find out how the traffic is on his way over. Edward with me, babies or no babies. The idea of that makes me whole. And if we get to have more... I can barely admit this to myself, let alone out loud, but... the stupid, stupid part of me is saying yes, yes, yes. It's all I want.

When I'm with him, and I allow myself to be in the moment, and not force myself to think and consider things, the roar and the buzz and mess in my head quiet down. Like, when I first wake up and my first thought is "Edward", or when we're deep in the middle of a conversation, or anytime we're lying side by side and I'm trying to learn the body next to me (so, so familiar, and yet new in a way that endlessly thrills)... My mind rests. It doesn't last for too long, but I find myself cured of the thoughts that have been killing me for years, months. Sometimes I find myself daydreaming. I have vague, abstract thoughts of some sort of future, and we're not that much older than we are now. This version of us is grown up, though. We're glowing, almost like victors, or maybe just people who are able to let everything go but the present. Maybe we've found some sort of happiness in the every day, in each other. It's not an obnoxious happiness I'd want to share with the world. But I'm calmer. The bright spots are easier to find. And sometimes when I'm daydreaming, the girl in Edward's arms is someone I like. Someone I would want to be. And maybe if I let go more often, and love him some more, and daydream a lot, I'll get there sooner than I could have ever hoped.

XxXxX

One in the morning and I'm on the couch, because I'd never let Mom sleep on a couch. We argued about it again, just like we did last night, but she finally took the bed. Then we cuddled like we did before I left for college, and talked about how stuffed we were.

I received a text from Edward a few minutes ago. He left after dessert, and he's on his way. He's almost here. I love surprises, even if I tell everyone I hate them. I wait, and wait, and finally, just twenty minutes after his text, he's at my door. We don't talk much. Mom is asleep. But we lie together on the couch, and I kiss him and kiss him until we fall asleep.

**so, a quick, edwardless chapter, but there's more to come. soon.**

**thank you so so so so much for all your reviews, your encouragement. you have no idea how much it meant to me. **

**let me know what you think. you're the best readers ever.**

**mwah**


	23. Chapter 23

**i hate not finishing things**

**so i'm going to finish this story. so if you're still around, hey, what's up? thanks for reading, but apologies for how short this is. it's just an attempt to get started on finishing something i started once, before things were different, etc. **

I've always enjoyed watching movies with him.

TV, too. Even though that was a different experience pre-Netflix.

He's always had a thing for memorizing things. His favorite lines, whether they're from TV or movies. He incorporates quotes and references in his everyday speech, and even if I'm sick and tired of hearing his favorites, I laugh. It feels pretty lame, because I'm an adult who's been laughing at the same things for what seems like decades.

Except there was that almost-decade I spent without him.

At the beginning of our latest "courtship" - if that's what we're going to call him cheating with me on his wife, he did less of this. But I guess he's more comfortable now. We're acting like friends again, not just two people looking for corners to whispers things in. I like it a lot. Come for the sex, stay for Netflix and movies we've both seen, and the quotes even I'm way too familiar with at this point. Or vice-versa. But not yet. I'm too focused on the sex still. Too focused.

So when we're sitting on my couch, and Mom's loudly vacuuming my hardwood floors with the vacuum she insisted on bringing along with her from Forks, Edward quotes a line before it actually comes up on screen. How stupidly happy it makes me also makes me stupidly nervous. To like someone so much. Forget love. That's something I can't even think about this second, because I'm so overwhelmed with liking him.

So I put my fingers in his hair, on the back of his head, and play with the softness. This boy is softer than he was when he was younger. He's soft soft soft in a way that embarrasses my fingertips. They must be harsh and unpleasant against his skin. Because that's where I've moved onto. But I touch him despite my stupid thoughts and think about idiotic things:

is this going to last

is this going to happen again next weekend

what if I keep waiting and anticipating and it doesn't -

and this could be for a very legitimate, stupid, nothing-to-worry-about reason, but what if it doesn't?

(when do I stop worrying and realize he's in my life he's in my life he's in my life even if that doesn't mean every night or every week or something maybe even less than that)

This man who was the boy I grew up watching movies with. He watches them the same way, even if he doesn't fuck me the same way. Even if he doesn't argue the same way. Or maybe nothing has changed, but I've forgotten too many details.

Mom's vacuum is driving me crazy, making it hard for us to hear what's going on in the movie. But it's okay, because Edward knows all of it. And when he quotes things he's never looking at the screen. Always my face. Like I should clap. Like I should pet him. Like I should say "good boy" in a pitch higher than my usual.

Remember when Mom would joke about him moving to Hollywood because of the voices and imitations he could do? And the uncanny ability to remember any line, no matter how unfunny or unimportant. I used to imagine that future and be sad, because my best friend would be gone. Later, when I fell achingly in love with him it would drive me crazy because my best friend would be gone. But now my best friend had a soft voice he used with me, hands I spent too many minutes thinking about.

"Let's watch that again. It's so funny."

"Okay."

I'll always do what he wants. What does that make me?

And does the answer to the question matter when I remember the boy who used to ask it in the same excited way? Because I remember him and love him and the man next to me.

Head in his lap.

Head on his shoulder.

Hand in my hair.

Feet under his thighs.

Where did this paranoia come from?

Tonight all I can think is... don't leave, don't leave.


End file.
